My Soul to Take
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Sequel to My Soul to Keep; JDCox; The war trudges on. John Michael Dorian still attempts to lead the rebellion, but when a storm causes him to switch lives with a JD from a time and place where the war doesn't exist yet, the rebel must make a choice...
1. Prologue

**AN: **So, this is the sequel to _My Soul to Keep_. I realize it's been nearly a year since I finished the other story, but I finally have something to write!

_The war still trudges on, and John Michael Dorian still attempts to lead the rebellion, but when a freak lightning storm causes him to switch lives with a JD from a time and place where the war doesn't exist—yet—the rebel hero must make a choice: prevent a country-wide catastrophe or allow the inevitable._

I understand if this isn't your thing. This _is _an AU, after all, and to top that off there's a bit of science fiction thrown in. But I promise it won't get too wild. No aliens or people sprouting extra limbs. *wanders into vague JD day dream where three-armed, four-legged people walk around, waving to the seven-armed mailman* Uh-huh.... Well, this is sort of the prologue and the beginning of chapter one rolled into the first update, just because things were getting a little long. Please be patient with me. I'm currently student teaching, and my updates may be few and far between, but I _do _know where this story is going--I just need to get it down on paper...then on my computer. So, on with the fic, then!

_My Soul to Take_

Prologue:

John Michael Dorian wakes with a scream, an electric current still sizzling through his veins. Something is wrong.

It is dark, which isn't unnatural. The bunker is generally pitch black at midnight, save for the few nightlights left on for the various children scattered around the place. This dark is unfamiliar. But the shapes _in _the dark are what worry the young man the most. He doesn't recognize them—or . . . maybe he does. It's strange. Every bone in his body screams _warning_, but his mind tells him there is something familiar and almost _comforting _about this place.

A muffled noise startles him, and his hand immediately goes to his pillow, where he knows Perry keeps a gun every night. His fingers graze soft cotton, nothing like the rough, torn pillows he is used to, and when he leaps to his feet, it is from a mattress, not a cot, onto carpeted floor, not cold concrete. He is warm, a sensation he has almost completely forgotten about outside the arms of a certain older doctor. And speaking of which....

"Perry?" he whispers, sucking in a breath as he reaches blindly in the direction of the bed he recently vacated. _A bed? _he thinks with longing. _I haven't slept in a bed since—_

Something across the room jiggles and squeaks, making him jump and slam back against a hard object that slides and topples over before he can get his balance. What feel like wooden drawers dig into his spine and his ribs, and he grimaces, collapsing to the floor himself and shielding his head from various small projectiles that shatter on impact.

It feels like the fighting all over again; broken glass and shrapnel crunching underfoot and cutting through boots right to the soles of the feet, sounds of thudding and cracking so loud his ears pop and ring for several hours afterward, terrified screams of desperate people trying to find shelter or loved ones or _anyone_

"JD?" a familiar voice says drowsily, and he forgets the pain in his side and back for a moment, carefully making his way to his feet.

"Turk?" he asks with more relief in his voice than he will ever admit to. "Turk, what's going on?"

"'Nilla Bear, it's three in the morning. I gotta work in two hours," Turk replies.

The rebel leader's stomach lurches, and the feeling that something is terribly wrong takes its place in his mind once again. "Work?" he asks in a small voice.

The light flickers on, and after a moment of adjusting to the light, both men stand in a shocked daze.

"JD, what the _hell_?"

"What the _fuck _is going on?"

John Michael Dorian is in a room in an apartment building that had been destroyed years ago.

0 o 0 o 0

JD wakes with a scream, the pain of cramped muscles and that uncomfortable tingly sensation from knocking his funny bone too hard lingering for a moment longer before slowly disappearing from his limbs. He breathes in and out very slowly, attempting to even out the breath still hitching in his throat. He is shivering, which is strange. Carla has an unnatural hatred of the cold and usually keeps the thermostat in the apartment set at seventy-nine degrees at night. He will have to talk to the landlord in the morning, though he doesn't envy Turk's toes at the moment.

"Some nightmare," he murmurs to himself, starting to ease himself back onto the bed.

"Must've been," a deep voice says from beside him.

JD jumps up from the bed with a shout of surprise, his feet slipping on the concrete—_concrete?—_causing him to fall. He crawls backwards on his hands and feet, expecting to find a wall at some point. Instead, he meets what feels like a hospital curtain, his fingers tangling in them as he falls back against the thin fabric. He barely has time to cry out before the curtain rungs snap with loud popping noises and the entire curtain comes down on his flailing frame.

A light switches on, the glow visible through the curtain, and a shadow looms over him. He gasps when strong hands wrap around his arms and attempt to pull him up.

"_No_!" he shouts, and the hands release him. He falls back with a thud, grunting as his head smacks hard against the floor. He struggles in the curtain, breathing hard as his fingernails slide uselessly along the smooth fabric. "Help! Someone help!"

"That's what I'm trying to do," the deep voice rumbles, and JD stops immediately, finally placing the familiar voice.

"Doctor Cox?"

Silence, then careful fingers navigating their way into the curtain cocoon before blessed fresh air and a worn, familiar face.

"What did you call me?" the red-haired man asks in a whisper, and JD blinks furiously against the light, holding a hand up to shield his eyes.

"D-Doctor Cox? What—"

The older man, suddenly, grabs his arm in a tight hold, and JD hisses in pain as he is forced around onto his stomach.

"Who are you?" the Irishman demands.

"What are you talking about?" JD barely gets the words out before his arm is jerked behind his back roughly. He gives a sharp cry.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, then I'm going to start breaking limbs," Doctor Cox threatens angrily. JD can't remember ever hearing the older man this upset.

"Perry?" someone asks from above them. JD can't move his head, but the older man looks up to find Carla and Turk standing over them, identical looks of concern and fear tainting their faces. "What's wrong?"

"Carla!" JD calls desperately, his free arm reaching toward the feet in his line of vision. Concern morphs into shock, and the couple starts forward, bent on saving their friend-in-need from his _clearly _deranged husband.

"_Stop_!" Perry holds up the hand that isn't currently holding down the intruder, halting the two in their tracks. "It isn't him! You have to trust me. This _isn't _JD!"

Before the young man can protest, several more lights come on, and more people come into view.

"Johnny?" Dan's incredulous tone echoes in the large expanse. "Coxie, what . . ."

JD takes Perry's moment of distraction to jerk away from the older man, rolling away and into another person—this one much smaller than the first. He grabs who he assumes is a child before they topple to the ground and sits up, said child in his lap.

The small crowd, which has grown in size as Jordan and more kids come out to find the source of the commotion, goes silent, seeming to hold their breath as one.

"Dad?" The small voice comes from the boy currently in JD's arms, and the young doctor starts, looking down into a pair of very familiar eyes.

"Who . . ." JD cannot wrap his head around this place. There are people that should know him that _do _but at the same time _don't_. And there are people—_children—_that he should apparently know

The boy's eyebrows furrow, and he starts to pull away from the man that is now most certainly a stranger. "Perry!" Sammy calls, and the man is kneeling beside him in an instant, grabbing hold of the boy and holding him close while stepping back toward the still-growing crowd.

Swallowing, JD finds the strength to stand on shaky legs. He is surrounded now, not just by people he knows and recognizes from the hospital but by complete strangers as well. Dozens of pairs of eyes glare at him accusingly, and as they watch him, he studies the people that are supposed to be his friends and family.

Turk and Carla look older, tired. Dan looks the most confused, the most scared. He is torn between wanting to hug the younger man and beating the shit out of him until he tells them where his _real _little brother is.

Jordan looks indifferent to either action, her only move to grasp the hands of the teenage boy and the young girl at her sides.

And last, but certainly not least, Doctor Cox, who is holding the boy to him like any father would do for his child. The older man looks pissed, and JD has a feeling that if the boy wasn't currently holding tight to his mentor's neck, he would be kicking the crap out of him right now.

The question was . . .

"What the _fuck _is going on?"

0 o 0 o 0

_February 6th 2009_

"Gandhi, why in the holy name of someone or other are you looking at me like that?" Doctor Cox has been up all night in the ICU attempting to keep a newly-wed couple—victims of a hit-and-run—from crashing. The wife made it—her husband lapsed into a coma and died in the night. Needless to say, the Irishman is not in the best of moods.

It is five in the morning. His shift is over. All he wants is to go home, collapse in his bed, and _not _think about his next shift at eleven that night. Yet here the bald surgeon is, standing in the way of his only exit. The older man is about to lose his sanity.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Cox," Turk says exhaustedly, looking every part of his apology and almost as tired as Doctor Cox feels.

"The wife not sleeping with you again?" the older man jokes half-heartedly. "I tell you, those couch cushions can be—"

"He insisted that we come to see you," Turk interrupts, stopping the man mid-rant.

Before he can inquire "_Who?_" however, someone steps in from outside.

"Perry," John says desperately, "we need to talk."

Doctor Cox stands motionless for a moment, the chaos of the night slowly seeping from his bones as he stares into the eyes of . . . someone _not Newbie_.

His gaze wanders over the younger man, briefly at first. He notices the other's height—not more or less than it ever has been, but somehow not the same. This man, this _stranger_, carries himself differently, with an air of confidence that the older doctor is not used to. At the same time, however, his stance is defensive, defiant, his feet steadily placed shoulder-width apart—much different from his normal, awkward shifting from one foot to the other.

Doctor Cox takes a closer look with his second glance. This JD is surprisingly fuller. Not fatter—no, if anything he's _slimmer—_but well-muscled. His biceps stretch the fabric of his shirt sleeves, the cotton clinging nicely to his defined torso and abdomen. The older man is hesitant to admit it, but he is mildly impressed.

JD's hair is longer—not exceedingly so, but enough to brush behind his ears—and less wild. Still as dark as it always has been but sporting a few premature gray strands. His skin is still an unhealthy paste color, but it is weathered, crinkled in the corners of his eyes and his lips. The young man's eyes are what captivate the Irishman most. What used to be a glistening, bright blue that emitted ponies and rainbows and countless amounts of girlish things is now a dull, haunted blue-gray circled by hollow, purple rings that speak of innumerable sleepless nights. Doctor Cox shudders to think of the things that these eyes have seen.

"What . . ." he starts, at a loss for words as he swallows the uncertainty at the back of his throat. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

The stranger opens his mouth to speak, but Turk jumps in instead. "Doctor Cox, I think you should listen to what he has to say."

The red-haired man shakes his head incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me. This is crazy! What do you think you're doing, playing this stupid game? So you dressed the little girl up to look . . . to look like . . ." He's not exactly sure _who _he is supposed to be looking at, let alone what he should be thinking about this situation.

"Well, he's _obviously_ not JD!" Turk says desperately, genuine fear crossing his features as he gestures toward the _not JD_. "You need to hear him out, 'cause he's got a lot of shit to say, and I can't be the only one dealing with this right now."

With a scowl and another once over of the young man, Doctor Cox crosses his arms. "You've got exactly two minutes to convince me why I should give up my precious beauty sleep for your sorry ass."

The stranger begins almost before the words have left the Irishman's mouth. "My name is John Dorian. I'm not . . . I'm not from here." The words are almost apologetic, and worry lines appear above the young man's brow—the first sign of concern that he has shown since showing up at the hospital. "I don't know what happened . . . I'm not supposed to be here."

"Obviously," Doctor Cox snorts, looking down at his sneakers to consider the other man's words. Absently, his gaze shifts to _not JD's _feet, and he notices with some curiosity that the young man is favoring his left foot more than his right. Yes, something is most definitely different about him. And it's going to take more than a conversation to find out what. With a resigned sigh and a vicious scrubbing of his face with his fingertips, he groans and spins on his heels. "Exam room three. Now."

0 o 0 o 0

"Shirt off," the older doctor commands, flipping through a chart and frowning as he realizes it will most likely be of no help. He tosses it aside and turns to face the young man, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in anticipation. Without hesitation, John roughly pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop to the floor and staring at the other man defiantly.

Doctor Cox stands speechless, staring with a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. The bruises and scars that litter the younger man's torso are grotesque. "Jesus, kid," he whispers, shaking his head.

John smacks his hand down on the examination table in frustration, barely registering the sting that travels up his forearm and trembles in his elbow. "I'm not a fucking _kid_, Perry, I'm—" He stops himself, the word _husband_ on the tip of his tongue. He has to be careful—the Doctor Cox and JD of this word may not be together yet . . . may not get together at _all_. "I need your help."

The older man frowns, gritting his teeth and swallowing hard. _The kid can't be serious, can he? I mean . . . one look at him, and I can tell it's not the creampuff that hangs around me like a kicked puppy. But . . . Something's not right here._

"Sit," Doctor Cox demands absently. John complies almost immediately, taking a moment to give the older man a grateful look. Before sitting, he shucks his jeans, standing only in boxers. The denim feels strange against skin that is too familiar with the soft fabric of scrubs. It's part of his image in his other life—his _real _life. Who's truly going to follow a doctor that doesn't _look _the part?

Eyes skimming the other man's near-naked body, Doctor Cox finds the reason for this _not JD's _uncomfortable stance—the favoring of his left leg. The young man's right knee sports scars from where metal pins had once undoubtedly held his leg together.

The examination table is cold, but the young doctor finds it warmer than the ones his is used to. Everything is so bright, especially with the white surroundings. He doesn't remember this many lights from before. Doctor Cox notices his uncomfortable blinking and shuts off one set of lights, dimming the room.

"Thanks," John smiles sheepishly, and the older man is briefly reminded of his Newbie.

My _Newbie? _he thinks, disgust rising in his throat like bile. With a shake of his head, he swings his stethoscope off his neck and makes his way around the examination table, doing his best to keep his eyes off of the battered body. What he finds when he rounds the table, however, makes him grimace. Not that he hasn't seen scars before—war veterans come through here all the time, and hell if he doesn't have a few of his own. But this is JD . . . _a _JD. The young man shouldn't have these kinds of scars.

Doctor Cox tentatively places the chestpiece of the stethoscope against the other man's surprisingly cool skin, the circular disc covering a rather nasty, raised scar.

"Breathe in," he says, his voice quiet, softer than he means it to be. John complies with this order as well, drawing in a slow, ragged breath. The older man frowns at the sound he hears. "Breathe out." John's chest shudders as he does so, making the frown on the other man's face deepen. "There's fluid in your lungs."

"I know," John replies matter-of-factly, and Doctor Cox rips the ear buds from his ears.

"You _know_?" he asks, his arms crossing tightly and his teeth clenching as the young man cranes his neck to look at him.

"Yeah," John says with a flippant tone. "I do."

The Irishman growls, stomping his way around the table and glaring at the other. "Are you taking up a collection, or is there an actual reason why you have the beginning signs of pneumonia? 'Cause to be perfectly honest, Annabelle, this whole thing is just blowing my mind a little bit. Do people in your _alternate universe_ walk around with infected lungs? Is that the new 'in thing'?"

John is quiet. A small smirk lifts one corner of his mouth, and it drives the older man insane. "Future," John says with a mildly amused voice, and Doctor Cox's eyebrows furrow. "I think I'm from an alternate universe _future_."

The other man deflates, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

"It's not common," the futuristic, alternate universe doctor explains calmly. "Pneumonia, I mean. We still have antibiotics—just . . . a limited supply."

"How limited?" The older man doesn't want to admit it, but he's truly curious about the world that this person comes from—after all, alternate universe or not, a war is on the way.

"We get supplies once a month," John says with a thoughtful shrug. "When things are quiet, we can ration them to last at least sixty days."

"And when things get loud?"

The young man goes quiet, his lips pursing and his eyes going blank as memories of crying people, sick people, _dying _people, flutter across his mind. He remembers those first long months when he and the medical staff were on their own. _No _supplies, _no _safe haven. Many of them spent that time in over-crowded quarantine camps, including John himself. When he was finally able to escape—when Perry and the others had banded together and come for the man that had spurred a _country _into action—he knew he couldn't be one of the followers. If he was going to save people and stand against those that opposed them, he was going to have to lead an army.

"Bad things," he whispers, running the horrific images from his thoughts. "Bad things happen." He blinks, clears his vision, to find Doctor Cox staring at him grimly, and he takes a steady breath. "Are you finished?"

The older man shakes his head, re-situating the stethoscope in his ears and placing the chestpiece on John's left pectoral. Ignoring the firm muscle there, he repeats the procedure, listening with disdain to the gurgling in the other man's lungs.

"Are you at least taking an antibiotic for this?" he asks, replacing the stethoscope around his neck.

John nods. "When I can, I do."

Doctor Cox grits his teeth and crosses his arms. "'Can' is not an option here, Betty. Either you _are _or you _aren't_. It's that simple."

"We don't have the supplies to waste that much antibiotics," John counters civilly, as if he has had this conversation before.

"How is _using _medication to get _better _'wasting' it?"

"We might need it for someone else." The young man's voice is getting desperate. His tone clearly says "back off," but the older doctor will have none of it.

"I think you should stop worrying about who _might _get sick and start thinking about those who _are_." Doctor Cox's voice has amplified in volume, but to his disappointment, the other man barely bats an eye.

"I won't let our children die like that, Perry!" John growls so suddenly that the older doctor takes a step back.

"Children?" he asks quietly, swallowing hard after the word has left his lips.

John covers his face with his hands, leaning forward on the table and resting his elbows on his thighs. "You don't know what these places are like," he says, his voice fluttering but remaining somewhat steady. "It's dark all the time. We can't go outside, we can't be too loud. Fuck! We can't even let them run around. It's just too crowded and too hot during the day, then too cold at night." He sits up, staring at the older man with desperation, with pleading eyes. "I stay up half the night checking to make sure they're warm, and I lay awake the other half feeling guilty that I'm not checking on them. I can't . . . They need something better!"

The older man's eyes soften slightly, the way they always have when something serious surfaces in their sitcom of a life. "They're . . . sick?" he asks carefully.

John shakes his head and closes his eyes. "No. Not now." Sighing, he lets his muscles relax a little. The tension is still there, but only to a certain degree. "I remember when Jack got sick." He swallows hard, wincing at the memory. "We were so scared. Jordan—" he lets loose a short bark of laughter "—she couldn't stop pacing for the life of her. Thought she'd wear a trench into the floor." John smirks. "You said she'd be able to use it as a trough." His face sobers again. "I won't watch it happen again. Not to Sammy, not to Jack, not to _any _of them."

Doctor Cox stands for a moment in bewildered silence, breaking the quiet only when a single thought comes to mind.

"Who's Jack?"

**AN: **Let me know if any of this is sounding as well as I thought it did the first time around....Really, I'd like to know.

Later, gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :)


	2. Chapter One

AN: Next chapter, as promised! Not as soon as I'd hoped it would be, but at least I've got it going! Just so you know, the days between the past and the present won't always match up. Sometimes the dates in 2016 will be a day ahead or behind the dates in 2009. But everything will even out in the end.

Thank you so much for all the support so far! I can't wait to really get this story going. It should be a good one!

Chapter One:

_February 6th 2016_

Televisions and portable stereos have been playing as loudly as is allowed for most of the morning. No one has wanted to hear the shouting echoing from a small room in the bunker reserved for prisoners and interrogations. Currently, it houses both—prisoner/impostor and interrogator. No one needs more than one guess to know who is who.

"Been in there for a while, huh?"

Dan pops his gum nervously, chomping on the pink substance more harshly than usual. Turk and Carla give him identical grim looks, and he sighs, leaning against the wall beside the door.

"He said anything?"

"No," Turk says simply. "It's mostly just yelling."

Perry's angry tone reverberates through the door—the same words he's been shouting since entering the small room.

"_Who. Are. You_?"

The stranger's frustrated tone responds with more than a little hostility. "I'm JD! I work at Sacred Heart! And as far as I know, so do _you _and half the people out _there_!"

Dan can imagine his impostor-brother pointing in the direction of the door. He sighs again. "Sacred Heart?"

"Yeah," Turk replies with a nod. "Perry has already told him that there _is _no Sacred Heart. Apparently, he doesn't believe it."

"And he hasn't said anything about Johnny? _Our _Johnny?"

Carla shakes her head, her brow furrowed in pensive thought. "Nothing. He doesn't know a thing."

"He could be lying," Turk says skeptically, knowing the words to be false the moment they leave his lips.

"Baby, _listen_ to him," the nurse urges. "That doesn't sound like an impostor or a double."

Dan winces at the mention of "double." Only a few months ago, he and JD had had a serious disagreement about what had happened with the younger Dorian son's look-alike. This very morning, in fact, Perry had grilled him for nearly an hour before the older man dared speak to this _not-JD_. Dan had to do a _lot _of convincing, and he still isn't sure if the doctor believes him, but he is absolutely certain that there are no more doubles—and if there are, he has absolutely no knowledge of them.

"Dan?" Turk asks, seeing the man lost in his own thoughts.

Dan shakes his head to clear it and pops his gum with a lazy half-grin. "Yea, Papa Bear?"

"It's _Chocolate_ Bear," the surgeon corrects patiently, as if he has had to often—and he _has_. "You okay? You don't have to be here, you know. When Perry is done—"

"I'll be standing right here to listen to what he has to say," the gum-chewer interrupts with a firm tone.

As if on cue, the shouting stops, and the only sound that reverberates through the bunker is the noise from the television sets and radios that had been turned up to drown out the shouting in the first place.

A moment passes, in which the people standing outside the interrogation room hold their breaths. Then an exhausted-looking Irishman exits the dimly-lit room. JD—_their _JD—had frowned the first time he head seen this room. "It's like a dungeon," he'd commented, to which Perry had replied, "Well, it's not a _tea room_, Abigail." The younger man had still been skeptical. After all, he'd spent enough time in the hands of the enemy to appreciate a little color, even in a room meant to intimidate.

As Perry swings the door shut behind himself, the group is afforded a brief glance of impostor-JD. The young man is sitting in a dark corner, the only visible part of him being his JD-like sneakers and his JD-like fingers strung through a bent head of JD-like hair

"What's the word, Coxie?" Dan asks in little more than a whisper.

The muscles in Perry's jaw ripple, and he growls low in his throat. "I can't see a difference." He lets loose a breath littered with frustration. "I mean, besides the fact that he's a fucking blast from the past . . . he's definitely Carol."

"But he's not _our _Bambi," Carla protests. "There's something wrong with him! How can he not recognize his own son? His own _children_?"

"Coxie," Dan says suddenly, his gum, for once, stationary in his mouth. "I think that's it!"

"_What's _it?"

"Blast from the past," Dan mutters, looking around at the others as if they should understand his nonsense. "That's my brother in there."

Perry grits his teeth and gestures violently toward the closed door. "_That_ is not my husband."

"No, it isn't," Dan agrees, contradicting himself and confusing everyone else. "But that's definitely Johnny."

"Dan, what are you—" Turk begins, but the other man starts toward the door with a determined stride.

"I have to talk to him." _pop_.

Perry puts a hand on his—dare he say it?—brother-in-law's shoulder, stopping the man in his tracks. For the first time in a _long _time, the doctor is hesitant. "Dan, that might not be such a—"

"I know what I'm doing." _pop_. "And I know I'm right. I just need to talk to him."

Dan's face is set, confident. And Perry can't think of anything to say that will deter him. He nods once and releases the man's shoulder.

"Okay."

Dan takes a deep breath and grabs the doorknob, twisting it harshly before he has a chance to lose his nerve.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 7th 2009_

John does not want to talk to his brother. Turk has insisted. Carla has threatened. Elliot has been doing quite a bit of squeaking since she saw him—and not much else.

John _still _does not want to see his brother. _He's not even my brother_, he reminds himself as he waits with Turk at an airline gate. People pour past them, faltering and searching and ultimately finding who they're looking for.

He swallows hard and wonders if he'll see those same looks of pure joy on the faces of his friends and family when he returns to his own life . . . _if _he returns to his own life.

Everything in this world reminds him of a better time—one where he can't remember the smell of ash and the taste of gunpowder and gasoline. What's worse is the discovery that not only does the JD of this world _not _have a son, but neither do Perry or the Turks. No Jack or Jenny-Denny. No Isabelle. No Sammy.

John has to close his eyes and hold his breath for a moment to keep his composure. He's never even imagined a world that doesn't have his own son in it.

Turk breaks his thoughts. "He's here." The words aren't excited like they usually would be. A visit from Dan generally means a long week or two of JD torture, which the surgeon can't resist. Now, however, the situation calls for something . . . less _Dan-like_.

John opens his eyes and searches momentarily before his gaze finds his brother's lank figure. He isn't sure what it is, but the man looks different. Same haircut. Same clothing. Same goofy smile—a goofy smile, he notices, that wanes slightly as Dan catches sight of him.

And there it is—that look. The one that makes him look older, more mature, exhausted . . . _happy_.

"Mocha Bear," Dan greets, his gaze still firmly set on the younger Dorian.

"It's _Chocolate _Bear," Turk corrects with only a half-smile.

"Yeah, of course," Dan says absently, starting toward the other man.

"Johnny."

The rebel leader grins as warmly as he can, but the gesture does not reach his eyes. And Dan can tell.

"I see," the elder Dorian son murmurs.

John opens his mouth to say something—_anything—_to his not-brother, but before the words have a chance to form on his tongue, he feels a small body slam into his legs and wrap skinny arms around his thighs.

"Uncle Johnny! Uncle Johnny!"

John stumbles back a step, his eyes wide as he stares down at a thick jungle of dark hair. The hair falls back, and a small, chubby face grins up at him, bright blue eyes alight with laughter.

John's mouth opens and closes as words attempt to make an escape but stick to the tip of his tongue. He looks to Dan for help. The other man is watching him closely, his look only becoming more grim as no recognition passes over the young doctor's face.

"Dylan," Dan offers quietly. John returns his attention to the child squeezing the life out of his legs. The boy has the beginnings of disappointment on his face.

Switching seamlessly into uncle mode—which he discovers is worryingly similar to _father _mode—John smiles and reaches down for the young boy.

"Dylan!" he says, surprised to find the excitement in his voice is genuine. The boy squeals and laughs as John swings him through the air.

"Uncle Johnny! Me next! Me next!" Another pair of arms wrap around his legs, these ones closer to his knees.

"Not your turn, Bobby!" Dylan says petulantly, holding tighter to the man masquerading as his uncle.

"Bobby?" John murmurs. The child at his feet begins to cry. "Hey!" He scoops the boy up with his other arm, whirling the both of them around. "There's plenty of room for two!"

"Yay!" the boys yell with excitement, throwing their hands up and laughing.

"JD! They just ate on the plane!" someone from behind Dan admonishes with an exhausted tone. "You'll make them sick."

To the great disappointment of the two boys, John stops his circular motion and reels from the dizziness. When his vision sets itself right, he falters, nearly dropping the children.

"Johnny, you remember—" Dan starts, holding out his hand to indicate the woman standing behind him.

"Kim?" John asks in little more than a croak. Kim—_his _Kim; his _former_ Kim.

"My wife," Dan finishes carefully, an odd look on his face as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"I swear, JD, you are just as much a kid as _they _are sometimes." Kim frowns at him, her eyebrows furrowing as she takes in his appearance. "Did you change something? Your hair?"

John clears his throat, setting the boys down and plastering a fake smile on his face. "Yeah. The hair," he replies curtly. Her frown deepens, and she looks like she wants to say more, but she turns to her husband instead.

"Honey, could you . . ." She starts to hand off the bundle in her arms to the man but discovers his hands full of diaper bags and carry-on luggage. Without thinking, she turns back to John and carefully but quickly puts the bundle into his arms. "I have to pee," she announces and starts toward the airport restrooms, little boys in tow.

John barely has time to register what has been given to him before they are gone. "Oh," he breathes when a very tiny face pokes out of the blankets wrapped firmly around a very tiny body.

"Her name is Ariel," Dan says, again studying his not-brother's face. "Kim went on a _Little Mermaid _binge before she was born."

"Oh," John repeats. He isn't at all certain why this infant is affecting him so drastically. He'd held Izzy _many _times when she was a baby, and he could hardly put Sam down when he had been this small. It's just . . . something about her that makes him never want to let go.

"You all right, little brother?" Dan asks, the endearment out of habit.

"I'm not your brother," John blurts without meaning to. Looking up, he finds Dan nodding his head.

"I figured," the other man says quietly. "We need to talk, then."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 6th 2016_

"Johnny?"

JD looks up from his hunched position, and Dan's jaw clenches hard on the gum in his mouth at the sight of the younger man. JD's eyes are red, his cheeks raw and glistening with tears. Perry was right. _This _JD, where ever he is from, is definitely a _blast from the past_. His hair is shorter, his physique less pronounced. And his eyes—through the puffiness and tears Dan can see something there that he hasn't for a long time.

_Hope_.

"Dan?" JD asks in a quiet, cracked voice.

Dan leans down, ruffling his brother-from-another-universe's hair and smiling gently. JD launches himself forward with so much force that he topples the other man to the floor.

Dan hears the young man mutter something, and he holds his breath, attempting to hear what it is. His heart plummets when he realizes what the young man is saying.

"It's just a bad dream. It's just a bad dream. It's just a bad dream."

"Johnny," he whispers, carding his fingers through the young man's thick hair, "this is real."

JD looks up into eyes that mirror his own, finding them full of sympathy and helplessness.

"Dan," he whimpers, tears sliding down his reddened cheeks, "I want to go home."

"I know." Dan sits up, taking hold of JD's shoulders. "And we're going to do everything we can to get you back there. But right now . . . there are some questions that we need answered."

JD sniffles and frowns. "You don't have to treat me like I'm _five_. I know how to answer questions." He looks hesitant, though, and swallows hard. "D-Doctor Cox isn't going to ask them, is he?"

"No," Dan says sincerely, a reassuring smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "No, I won't let him in here again."

JD studies the other man for a moment, eyes narrowed and jaw set. "You're not my brother, are you?"

Dan sighs. "Not exactly . . . Sit tight, okay? I'm going to see if I can get you moved somewhere warmer." _pop_.

0 o 0 o 0

"This is a bad idea," Perry broods, pacing outside the small room that has been sectioned off for their prisoner.

"Just give Dan the time he needs," Carla says quietly.

"What makes you think he'll do any better than I already did?" the Irishman snarls, barely offering the nurse a glare.

Carla frowns and steps in front of the man, halting him in his tracks. He opens his mouth to speak but she beats him to the punch, her hands placed firmly on her hips and her tone thick with a Latina accent. "Perry Cox, you will listen to me," she starts, her voice low. "Dan has gotten more cooperation from _whoever _the hell that is in minutes than you could in _hours_. There has not been a _single _raised voice from that room, yet they've been talking for near forty-five minutes. So don't you stand here and bitch about how you don't like this. We want JD back just as much as you do."

There are tears in her eyes by the time she's finished, and before anything more can be said, the curtain separating them from the Dorians is pulled back.

Dan looks grim, his lips pursed into a thin line and his eyebrows knitted together.

"What?" Perry asks, looking past Dan to the young man who appears to be sleeping. "What did he say?"

"I don't think he's from our past," Dan says quietly, closing the curtain as he joins them.

"It _was_ a bit of a stretch, Dan," Turk starts, but the other man shakes his head.

"No, that's not it." He sighs and rubs a hand over his tired face. "I don't think he's from _our _past. I think . . . I think he's from somewhere else."

"_Where _else could he possibly be from?" Perry says angrily. He hadn't been happy about accepting the theory that this JD was from the _past_. Now he is supposed to believe that not only is this impostor from the past but from—

"An alternate universe," Dan says rather reluctantly, shaking his head even as he says it.

Perry stands in a stupor for a moment, staring at the other man blankly. His face begins to turn red. His lips purse. His arms cross, and he takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth. Dan flinches, preparing for the worst.

In a harsh gust, Perry expels the air in his lungs, closing his eyes and saying only one word:

"Okay."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 7th 2009_

Kim and the kids had stayed at the motel while Dan, John, and Turk had gone back to the apartment and started a very long conversation.

Currently, John isn't sure whether his alternate universe brother's silence is a blessing or something to be worried about. He had told the man everything, every gruesome detail. Even about the explosion, the coma, the torture. And Dan had sat and listened, hands clasped together, his eyes never once breaking eye contact.

Now he sits, staring at the hideously-carpeted floor, absorbing the information. "So," he says finally, swallowing hard and looking back up at the other Dorian, "my children . . ."

"They don't exist," John says regretfully. "Not in my world."

"And . . . you and Kim?"

"We . . . had Sammy. But we didn't stay together for long."

"But you're with someone?" Dan looks genuinely curious, and John winces, shifting his gaze away. Well, maybe he'd skipped a few things in the story-telling part.

"Yes," he says quietly, determined to tell the truth, no matter _what _this Dan thinks of him.

Dan notices the man's hesitance and frowns. "Is it serious?"

John represses the urge to laugh—mainly because he knows that, yes, he and his husband are very serious, but partly because he knows that if he laughs, it will be hysterical and desperate and he's not at all certain that he'll be able to stop himself before he starts to sob.

"Yes," he says, the word almost a whisper as he absently rubs the spot where his wedding ring should be. It hadn't made the trip with him. "I'm married."

Dan nods. "All right." His gaze shifts, and he clears his throat. "So this war . . . ."

John is surprised at the sudden change of topic but nods gratefully.

Dan continues. " . . . You said our time period doesn't match yours?"

"In my . . . _universe_, the war is supposed to start in one month."

"And how do you know it won't start?" Dan asks. "What's to say it still won't happen?"

John purses his lips. "I don't know for certain. I just know that things are different here. Who knows? Maybe I'm here to stop this thing from happening."

"Do you think you can?"

"Well, I'm sure as hell not going to sit back and let it if I can prevent it."

Dan eases back into the couch, a strange smile taking his face. "You really _are _different from him, you know?"

The younger man—now actually older than his alternate universe "older" brother—bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't really want to know about this universe's JD. From what he's learned so far, the guy hasn't done much of anything.

This JD is still a resident at the hospital, Elliot having taken the position as Chief Resident. He hasn't published any articles or dated anyone seriously. He never even _met _Kim, and therefore never had children. All-in-all, the guy is kind of a loser . . . .

"Yeah," John sighs absentmindedly, rubbing a scar through his shirt. "I guess I am."

Dan does not miss the gesture and takes a pensive breath. "This war," he starts quietly, his voice thick, "it's a bad one?"

John's fingers cease their action, and he lowers his hands, leveling his gaze with the other man's. "A lot of people have died," he admits.

"Anyone we know?"

John shrugs. "No one unexpected." His eyes glaze over as a thought hits him. "Mom." He hasn't thought about her for so long. She died in the first wave of the disease, practically the day they began quarantining cities. "Mom's gone."

Dan nods, as if something like that were to be expected. "And Dad?"

John shakes his head. "Dad died long before the war started." The statement clicks in the young doctor's head, and he looks at the other man curiously. "Why? What happened here?"

Dan's eyebrows shoot up high on his forehead. "Dad's still alive."

The rebel leader's jaw clenches, and he swallows hard. He isn't quite sure why this news affects him so much. He knew there would be major differences in this world the second that Perry told him that Jack and Jenny don't exist. But his father? _Alive_?

The elder Dorian son clears his throat, suddenly looking unsure. "I . . . told him to come."

John takes in a sharp breath and stands, beginning to pace the floor.

"I thought something might be wrong," Dan tries to explain. "I was worried. And Dad's always been there for us. I just thought—"

"'Always _been there for us_'?" John says, not meaning for the words to come out as incredulous as they do—not meaning for them to come out at _all_, really. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Dan's eyebrows furrow, and he stands, crossing his arms defensively. "What the hell are _you_ talking about?"

The other man swallows hard and takes a deep breath. _Different universe_, he tells himself. _Different Dad. Different Dan. Different _me_._

"Nothing," John says, pressing into his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. "He's . . . obviously a different person here than he was where I'm from."

"Obviously," Dan murmurs, his look softening but still laced with concern.

"Do you know when he'll be here?"

"Couple hours, maybe. He was close enough to drive, so I told him not to waste his money on a plane ticket."

John nods. It makes sense, his father driving. He drove everywhere when they were kids, even across states. He always insisted it wasn't about the money or the flying—though John always suspected it was a little of both. It was just something about being on the road, driving until he was stranded somewhere without gas or with smoke billowing from under the hood; something about seeing one town after another disappear in that rear-view mirror.

Since the war, John has had plenty of his own experiences on the road. He's had few chances to feel the freedom his father spoke so fondly of—running for your life can do that to a person.

"But knowing Dad," Dan continues, a grin on his face, "he probably bought one anyway."

"Damn right, I did," a voice says from the doorway.

John and Dan turn to find Sam Dorian standing in the entryway, duffel in hand and a grim look on his face.

"Dad," Dan says, turning to look at John carefully and gauge his reaction.

John's face is blank, his eyes clouded over. This man is his father, no doubt. He's older with a few more gray hairs and more than a few extra pounds. But it's him.

Sam looks the stranger over once, his frown merely deepening as he glares and says, "Where the hell is my son?"

AN: Until the next chapter....Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side. :)


	3. Chapter Two

AN: Wow...It's been a while, yes? I am very sorry about the delay on updating, Kats and Kittens. I've been busy with student teaching, and I just recently found the notebook that I was writing this story in. Somehow, it got packed away when I was leaving college. But now it's found! And the story will continue. Enjoy, my lovlies! Enjoy!

Random Note: Anyone seen Daybreakers with Ethan Hawke and Willem DaFoe? Pretty awesome. :)

Chapter Two:

_February 7th 2016_

JD sleeps for a whole day, emerging with a wary look and growing sense of dread.

"So . . . how am I supposed to get home?" he asks at breakfast, poking experimentally at the running eggs and soggy toast on his plate.

"I think our first question should be how you _got _here," Dan says, sticking his first piece of gum for the day to the rim of his cup and chewing on the corner of his toast. "You said you felt something, right? A charge?"

"Yeah, I guess," JD sighs, pushing his plate away and resting his chin in the palm of his left hand.

Perry, sitting across from the young man, shoves the plate back at him roughly. "We don't waste food," he says gruffly. "Everyone eats. That's the rule."

JD frowns at the plate of mushy food. "Whose rule?"

The table goes quiet, and he looks up to see everyone either avoiding eye contact or staring at the Irishman expectantly.

Perry picks up a fork and holds it out to the young man. "_Yours_."

JD gingerly takes the fork and shovels something milky and scrambled into his mouth, swallowing quickly so he doesn't have to chew—not that he'd need to anyway.

"This charge," Dan continues, as if the brief exchange of hostility hadn't occurred, "you mean . . . _electrical_?"

"I mean struck-by-lightning-insides-sizzling. It _hurt_ like hell."

"Lightning?" Carla says thoughtfully. "Wasn't there lightning the other night?"

"A thunder storm," Turk confirms. "You think that's what did it?"

"I don't see _how_," Dan replies, looking at the stranger and shrugging, "but anything right now is possible."

"Sent forward in time to an _alternate universe _by a little thunder and lightning?" Perry asks incredulously, dropping his fork on his empty plate. The resounding clatter makes much of the morning chatter cease, several pairs of eyes from across the bunker-turned-breakfast-hall swiveling in their direction. "This is ridiculous."

"Perry—" Carla starts, placing a hand on his arm, but the man shakes it off.

"No. I want to know why he's _here_. Why _our _Carol is gone." He suddenly whirls on the JD-imposter and forces words past a closing throat. "_What _are you doing here?"

Staring wide-eyed at the other man, JD swallows hard. Perry's blue eyes are wet and shining, his adam's apple bobbing with every jerk of the muscles in his neck. The Perry—_Doctor Cox—_in his time has never gotten so worked up about _anything_, much less a screw-up like him. Is their JD really so great? Does he really hold so much power?

"I don't know," JD mumbles, his thoughts still trapped, still wheeling around in his head like a hamster on speed.

Perry scowls, a low growl sounding in the pit of his throat before he violently shoves away from the table and storms off in the direction of his make-shift bedroom—the bedroom he has shared with his husband for an odd number of years. He can't fathom being alone in it _again_, especially after just having gotten JD back.

Broken bones mended, illness cured, bruises faded, wounds healed. He had even started smiling again, waking up less during the night. Things had been going well for once.

_So why wouldn't they be messed up now? _Perry thinks bitterly, throwing back the curtain and removing himself from the view of several pairs of prying eyes.

JD sits quietly, trying to work things out in his head. He'd woken up next to this _Perry—_not on a different cot beside him, but actually _next _to him. If he remembers correctly, the older man's muscled arm had been slung across JD's hips protectively. He could understand sharing a cot if they were in short supply—which they seemed to be, judging by all the mats that lay on the floor at night. But this was different. Perry had asked him if he'd had a bad dream, had tried to comfort him before he'd realized he was an imposter. The older man had been almost . . . _intimate_.

Which begs a question . . . .

"Don't worry about Perry," Carla soothes, giving him an apologetic smile. "He's just—"

"He's gay," JD blurts, and, once again, the table goes silent. JD searches the faces around him for confirmation. "I mean, that's it, right? He and . . . the _other me_, they're together or something?"

"You mean you're not . . . You and _your _Perry aren't . . . ." Carla doesn't quite know how to put it, but JD seems to understand the question anyway.

He shakes his head vehemently. "Uh-uh. No way. I've never even _looked _at guys like that . . . Well, maybe once in college, but they banned me from the guys locker room after that, so no way am I making _that _mistake again."

"Johnny . . ." The endearment comes a little too easily to Dan's lips, and he winces. "Perry and . . . _my brother_ are . . . They're sort of serious."

JD's eyes narrow. "_How _serious?"

Carla sighs. "Oh, Bambi, you didn't . . . _notice_ anything?"

"Like what?"

Carla rolls her eyes and stands from the table, heading in the direction that Perry had gone.

JD turns to his not-brother, a genuine look of confusion contorting his face. "Like _what_?" he asks again.

Dan shakes his head, giving the younger man a sympathetic smile. "You're on your own, little bro." He stands and stretches, picking the wad of pale pink gum from his cup and popping it in his mouth. "Finish your breakfast. We're meeting Turk for patrol."

JD's eyebrows raise in surprise as he looks around for his Chocolate Bear to find that he had slipped away during some of the commotion. "'Patrol'?" he repeats absently.

"And then you have rounds."

"'Rounds'?" JD feels like a parrot. And for a moment, his mind wanders . . . .

/_JD sits in a birdcage , his body covered with colorful feathers. He glances around in distress, then cowers in fear as the large face of the janitor appears. _

"_Polly want a cracker?" the man asks, smiling evilly and holding up a round cracker the size of JD's head. _

_JD squawks._/

The younger Dorian shakes his head clear of the daydream, frowning and muttering something about giant crackers. Dan stares for a long moment. He hasn't seen a full-blown JD vision like that since . . . Well, he can't even really be sure.

Johnny had stopped daydreaming little-by-little as the war progressed, and when the fighting and the sickness and the dying had reached its peak, they had ceased all together. More than anything, Dan wants his little brother back. And not just from the past, or where ever he might be. He wants the Johnny that he remembers—the one who would rather play Hide the Saltine than stitch up a head wound, who would rather play with his son than map out escape routes in case of enemy attack, who would think of a million-and-one alternatives to getting himself blown up, falling into a coma, or thrown into enemy hands. This JD has never experienced those things, and Dan isn't certain whether he should be _relieved_ that at least someone out there has no knowledge of what it's like to live in hell, or _angry_ that someone—a whole _alternate universe_, in fact—has no knowledge of what it's like to live in hell.

When Dan's mind returns from his chaotic train of thought, JD is reluctantly finishing his breakfast. The older man sighs. They'll have to make _this _JD less picky about his eating habits.

"Come on," he says, waving his hand in the direction that they will be going. _pop_.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 8th 2009_

John wakes abruptly, a hand clamped tightly on his shoulder.

"Perry?" he murmurs before the grogginess fully leaves his mind. When it does, however, his eyes fly open, and he sits up with a gasp.

"Who?" Dan asks, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

Swallowing, John shakes his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. "Nevermind. Just . . . forget it."

Dan frowns but does not press the subject. "Dad wants to go out for breakfast."

"Dad," John repeats, memories from the night before barraging his mind.

/_"Where the hell is my son?"_

_John only has one answer for this question, as it's one he has been getting since his arrival. With a shrug, he says, "I don't know."_

"_Bullshit," Sam replies without a second's hesitation. _

"_Dad," Dan attempts to calm the situation, but the older man will have none of it._

"_What sorts of lies has he been feeding you? What excuses has he given for your brother's disappearance?"_

_John is both shocked and amazed by his father's behavior. What he wouldn't give to have had this man by his side when the war began. _

"_He hasn't lied to me, Dad," Dan says with an aggravated sigh. _

"_And how would _you _know?" _

_The eldest of the Dorian sons gestures incredulously at John as if to say _Are you kidding me? _Look _at him!

_Sam does, and though his eyes still emanate a large amount of suspicion, they soften. He steps forward, scrutinizing the young man. _

"_I want my son back."_

"_Well, I don't want to be here," John says, perhaps a little more sharply than he'd intended, "so maybe if we work together, we'll _both _get what we want."_

_After the agreement, they go over everything. Again. More than once: Where had he woken up? Where was he when he fell asleep? Did it have something to do with the storm? If he is _here_, does that mean his counterpart is _there_? _

_Which only begs more questions on Sam's part. Everything that John had told Dan is repeated. It feels strange, being interrogated by his own family. Not that John isn't used to much worse. _

_When mention of Doctor Cox and the examination surface, Sam demands to see what the Irishman had. John outright denies the order. _

"_I'm sorry," he says when Sam looks about ready to rip the shirt right off his back. "It's not that I'm ashamed of them. It's just . . ." He hesitates. "There's only one other person who is allowed to see me that vulnerable."_

"_And this 'Doctor Cox' is an exception?" Sam asks, wanting to be angry but knowing the feeling himself. John is quiet, and a thought in Dan's head clicks into place. _

"_What's his first name, this doctor of yours?_

_By the look on his face, Dan can tell that he's hit something right on the mark._

"_Percival," John says quietly. "His name is Percival Cox."_

"_Perry." Dan nods his head as if confirming something. "I think I'd like to speak with him."/_

"Johnny?" Dan's voice pulls him away from his thoughts, and he looks up to find the other man staring at him expectantly.

"Yeah, sorry." He gets up from the couch slowly, feeling every aching muscle stretch with satisfaction. He wishes he had time for a morning workout. Even a run would bring some semblance of normality back into his life. But what is so normal about his life to begin with? Compared to things back home, this life is fucking _Leave It to Beaver_.

Only when he notices Dan's eyes trained on his abdomen does he realize that stretching his arms above his head and allowing his shirt to ride up probably wasn't the best idea. He knows exactly what his not-brother is seeing—Perry had made him painfully aware of every scar marring his body, paying extra attention to them during . . . certain activities.

The scar that Dan's gaze is currently glued to was made by a four-inch paring knife, a souvenir that John still carries with him. It's an ugly story, one involving a lost night in the woods and a serial rapist/murderer. It isn't something he likes to think about often.

He lowers his arms, covering the long, puckered scar.

"Looks like it was deep," Dan comments darkly.

John's fingers tug at the hem of his T-Shirt uncomfortably. "Do I have time to take a shower before we go?"

The elder Dorian son's jaw clenches at the change of subject, but he nods anyway. "Yeah. Take your time. Dad's on the phone. Conference call, or something."

John nods and moves toward his . . . _JD's _bedroom, where Sam had slept the night before.

0 o 0 o 0

John stares at the scrambled eggs on his plate with contempt. Out of courtesy and respect for his family, friends, and fellow rebels back home, he had ordered the same thing he has been eating for breakfast since he can remember—eggs and toast. As he takes a bite of each, his face contorts into a look of disapproval.

"Something wrong with your breakfast?" Sam asks around a mouthful of Southwestern omelet.

"No," John says reluctantly, spitting the eggs into a napkin and taking a drink of water, which also makes him frown. "It's fine."

Sam and Dan share a look. "So, where you come from, you spit out things that taste good?" Dan asks in confusion.

"No, we just . . ." What is he supposed to tell them? That the eggs aren't watery enough? That the toast is too crunchy? That the water is . . . _clean_? "I'm not used to breakfast like this. I feel sort of like I'm . . . _cheating_, or something."

"What's so wrong with eating something _decent_ for once?" Sam slurps down a mug of black coffee, and John's mouth starts to water at the smell of it. But with a shake of his head, he resists the urge and frowns.

"People like me aren't allowed to eat like this," he says quietly, sighing as he pushes the plate away and stares out of the diner window.

"People like you?" Dan asks, faltering as he begins to cut into his Chicken Fried Steak.

"_Rebels_," John says bitterly. "Scum of the earth. No more than rats that rot in sewers."

A woman sitting behind Dan and Sam turns, giving the young man a scornful look for even _mentioning_ such ill things while she's eating. John ignores her and chooses to glare at his plate.

"Is that how you see yourself?" Sam asks quietly, studying the man who looks almost like his youngest son.

"Does it matter?" John murmurs. Unbeknownst to the two men sitting opposite him, these are the very words that Perry spoke to him when he had asked the same question. "And anyway . . . If my own _children_ don't eat this well, how am I supposed to enjoy it?"

"_Children_?" Dan asks setting down his utensils and furrowing his eyebrows. "I thought you said you only had a son?"

"I adopted them when I married," the young man says carefully, making a decision and deciding to accept the consequences. "They're my husband's children."

It takes a moment for the information to sink in, but John watches closely for the looks of realization.

"Perry Cox, right?" Dan asks, his tone holding only curiosity. John hesitates, nodding slowly.

"That doctor he's always on about?" Sam says, huffing at Dan's answering nod. "I thought as much."

John frowns at the man's response. "Something wrong with that?"

Sam shakes his head as he takes another bite of his breakfast. "No. Just wish the boy would _do_ something about it, is all."

"So . . . your son is . . . ."

Dan looks slightly uncomfortable. "We don't know for _sure_, but . . . I mean, we don't go around assuming people are . . . and it's not like we don't _know_ JD." He stops himself, seeing he's making absolutely no headway with his particular conversation.

Sam intercepts calmly. "I know my sons, John." It isn't an accusation, and it isn't a prejudice remark. It is simply something that a father would say—a father that spends time with his children and knows them inside and out.

"Good," John says absently. "That's good."

Dan puts down his fork. "So, Dad is . . . Well, _your _dad is dead in your time?"

"He has been for a long while," the young man sighs, sitting back and crossing his arms. His biceps stretch the fabric of his—JD's—shirt sleeves. He still isn't used to the feel of the fabric. If _JD_ had kept any scrubs at the apartment, he might have considered wearing them instead of the jeans and shirt with an unrecognizable logo. "Heart attack."

Dan nods. "What flavor was the cake?"

John smirks. It's nice to know that at least some things are the same. "Chocolate."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 6th 2016_

Patrol is brutal.

Three hours of standing at separate posts around the bunker as the sun rises and makes itself known. The walkie-talkies are fun for a while, but _this_ Chocolate Bear's sense of humor seems muted. Doesn't the JD—or _John_, rather—of this time joke around at all? Though he has to admit one thing—_this_ Turk's extensive knowledge of the Gilmore Girls far exceeds his own.

Rounds have been, perhaps, even _less _enjoyable. He's never had to ask so many people to say "ah," to tell him where the pain is, to _bend over_. He's been puked on three times—and only _one _of those times was by a child. And even with everything that seems to be going on, he still has had to deal with hypochondriacs and junkies looking to score drugs.

"What is _wrong_ with these people?" he raves when they break for lunch mid-afternoon. "They know there's a _war_ going on, right? How can they—"

"We're all _aware_ that there is a war 'going on' here, Priscilla," Perry says sharply. "People are still _people_. War doesn't change that."

"I'm just _saying_," JD pouts defiantly, gaining some courage from his surroundings.

"No, you don't have a _right_ to say _anything_." Perry stands abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. "You don't know anything about us."

"Well, I wish you would _tell_ me," JD says angrily, standing and facing the older man, "seeing as I'm going to have to deal with it when I get back to my _own_ time."

"_If _you get back," Perry growls, crossing his arms.

The others have stood from the table, glancing between each other anxiously. The bunker has gone silent, all eyes trained on the two men.

"Yeah. _If _I get back," JD says, mirroring the man's stance. "_If _your boyfriend gets back. I'm sure he's having the time of his life in _my_ place."

"He's _not_ my 'boyfriend,'" Perry seethes, his fingers curling so tightly into his palm that his knuckles crack.

"Sorry," JD mutters sarcastically. "Your _girlfriend_, then." He isn't expecting the punch to the nose, but after the initial shock of pain, he realizes that he probably should have. He has his father's quick temper, and sometimes he says things he shouldn't—especially, it seems, in front of _this_ particular man.

The others step in, giving shouts of disapproval and ready to stop them should further fighting ensue. JD, however, merely waves them off, holding his nose and checking for blood. There is a considerable amount coating his fingers, and his eyes water at the pain shooting up the bridge of his nose.

"Bambi, let me—"

"I'b fahn," he states, his nose blocked up.

Carla frowns, giving Perry a meaningful look. The older doctor rolls his eyes but sighs and says, "Come on."

He starts off in the general direction of the examination rooms. JD is hesitant to follow him—partly because he's spent all morning cooped up back there, and partly because he doesn't want to get hit again, no matter how much he deserves it.

Shoulders slumping in defeat, he gives the others a brief glance before starting after the other man.

0 o 0 o 0

"I'm sorry," JD blurts, the words compulsive and forced.

Perry merely grunts, frowning as he prods the puffy, swollen skin around the young man's nose. "It's not broken," he decides finally, "but it'll be swollen for a few days and bruised for at least a couple weeks."

"I'm quick to temper. I get it from my dad," JD explains unnecessarily. "We've never gotten along."

"Ice it tonight, and I'll check it again in the morning." Perry starts to leave.

"Doctor Cox," the young man whispers, and the Irishman stops but doesn't turn around. "I know you don't like me." Perry is silent. "But . . . you like your JD, right?"

Perry almost scoffs at the questions, finally turning around to give his once-and-for-all opinion of the young man. The words, however, die at the back of his throat as he catches a glimpse of the look in this JD's eyes. It isn't far off from a look that Perry remembers being in his _husband's _eyes. JD—_John_—lost it years ago.

_Hope_.

Perry crosses his arms, giving the young man the first decent look he's been able to offer since the young man's arrival. "You're really not from here, are you?"

JD sighs a breath of relief and smiles as best he can, shaking his head. "No," he says, "I'm not."

Perry swallows and grabs a stool from a corner, placing it in front of the examination table and sitting like an obedient school child.

"Okay."

AN: Well, stay tuned! I promise more is to come soon. I have the next couple of chapters written out already. They're just waiting to be typed up and posted. Next chapter up soon! I've kept you waiting long enough, yeah? Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	4. Chapter Three

AN: So, I noticed that there was a date discrepancy in the last chapter. The very last February 6th should be a February 7th. Sorry! My goof. Anyway, I hope I am glad to be updating again. I have really taken a renewed interest in this story, and I hope to finish it within the next month or so. So far, it doesn't seem like it's ever going to end, even though I have the ending in mind. It's just making the jump from the middle to there that's going to be a problem...Anyway, enjoy this next chapter!

Chapter Three:

_One Week Later—February 15th 2009_

Sam leaves. Well, more accurately, Sam is forced to leave. A client calls with a request for a face-to-face conference. The client is too big to lose, and Sam's job is not important enough to keep if he botches this sale. So Sam leaves.

Several hours later, Dan receives the call. Sam Dorian has died on the turnpike of some no-account little highway, having veered into a ditch. Discovered some hours later, he is found to have had a heart attack—most likely the cause of the crash.

Dan finds solace in his family and friends. John refuses any offered comfort, claiming he's been through it before and that it isn't _his_ father that's died, anyway.

His attempts to hide away at the hospital and grieve in peace—because, yes, it _is_ in fact his father, no matter the universe, and it hits him harder the second time around—are interrupted when Perry finds him balled up in a corner of the third floor mens bathroom.

John can't stop the sobs, even when the older man sits beside him and hesitantly pulls him into an awkward hug. John does not want awkward hugs or forced sympathy. He doesn't want these strangers thinking he cares what happens in some God-forsaken alternate universe that's screwed up and wrong and _can't _sympathize with him because they don't know—they _can't_ know—the things he's done and seen.

They can't.

And that's when John realizes what he has to do.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 15, 2016_

Sammy Dorian Cox does not like the stranger who looks disturbingly like his father. There are subtle differences, such as the color of his hair and the lack of crows feet around his eyes. And then there are the not-so-subtle differences, such as the way he and Perry fight and the lack of bedtime story before lights out.

Sammy does not like the stranger at all, and the more days that pass, the angrier he becomes until he decides his inner fuming can no longer be kept silent. Unfortunately, this moment presents itself when he least expects it—in a very crowded mess hall.

JD helpfully pours him a glass of juice and gives him a smile. But it is not his father's smile, and it is not the right kind of juice. Sammy knocks the cup to the ground, and juice splatters across the concrete floor.

"Sam!" Perry chides, standing to find something to clean the mess with.

"It was an accident," JD says, though he knows otherwise. "I got it." He stands, and Sammy stands with him, pushing him away from the spilled juice.

"It's _my _mess," he says stubbornly. "_I've_ got it."

"Okay." JD shrugs and turns back to the table. Sammy pushes him again, causing the stranger to lose his balance and catch himself on a chair before he falls to the ground.

"Sam!" Perry growls, placing a hand on JD's shoulder to steady him, which only serves to enrage the child more.

"Stop it!" Sammy yells, stomping his foot and glaring at the both of them. A quiet settles over the table. "What is he doing here, Perry?"

The Irishman gives the boy an aggravated look. He's been dreading this conversation for some time. He expected it sooner, and somehow this is exactly how he pictured it starting. "Kid, don't do this here."

"I want to know where my dad is!" Sammy demands loudly, his eyes welling with tears and his tone on the verge of hysterical. "I want to know what _he_ did with him!" He points an accusing finger at the _not-dad_, backing away when Perry takes a step toward him. "_Why_? Why is he here and my dad's _not_?"

Perry leans down on one knee imploringly. "Sammy, you know he has nothing to do with your dad being gone."

"You said you loved him! You said you wouldn't let bad things happen to him!"

The Irishman closes his eyes and winces. He'd made that promise to Sammy the day of his and John's wedding almost five years ago. And he intends to keep it . . . but _how_ he intends to keep it is an altogether different problem.

"You lied," Sammy whispers, tears spilling down his cheeks. "You love _him_ more than my dad." He gestures half-heartedly to JD behind the older man.

Sammy turns to leave, but Perry grabs the boy's arm and draws him into a hug. "That is _not_ true," he forces past a closing throat, squeezing the child—_his _child—to his chest. "That is _not true_."

And Sammy knows it isn't as tears fall down both their faces.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 17th 2009_

"You have to _what_?"

It is two days before the funeral. Dan is supposed to leave to help his mother with arrangements, but John has held him back from his flight to discuss "the plan."

"I have to stop this. I think . . . I'm _supposed_ to stop the war from happening. Why else would I be here?"

Dan doesn't have an answer. He also has a plane ticket to trade in for another flight. "I have to go," he responds absently, standing and heading toward the door.

"Dan—"

The eldest of the Dorian sons whirls around, a strange look on his face. "My father just died," he says bluntly. "_Our_ father just died. I can't . . . I can't do this right now." He leans down and picks up the luggage at his feet. "And if you value your reputation here in _this_ universe, you'll be at the funeral."

And then he's gone, leaving John with a country-wide crisis to handle by himself.

0 o 0 o 0

John attends the funeral, however briefly, then returns to Sacred Heart. He receives sympathetic looks from staff he recognizes—and some he doesn't even know.

"Doctor Dorian, I'm obligated to give you personal leave, so I suggest you take it and stay out of this facility before your grief is the cause of a patient's death and the hospital is sued." Doctor Kelso's words are inspiring as ever. And John has to stop to appreciate the man's presence for a moment—the man who risked everything to get the rebels the supplies they needed and was killed for his charity.

"I'm fine, Doctor Keslo," he says quietly. "I think I'll just work in the clinic, if that's all right. It'll keep my mind occupied."

Kelso frowns and studies the man skeptically. He doesn't remember hiring this young man. Or maybe he does, but he's different somehow. Though his words show respect and his tone is quiet, there is a certain amount of resilience in his eyes—something that the chief of medicine recognizes.

"Fine," he says reluctantly. "I'll assign someone to observe you for the day." Turning his head sharply, he spots his victim. "Perry!"

The Irishman's shoulders hunch. He's heard everything, and his attempt to sneak away has been thwarted by the all-knowing devil himself.

Kelso points his clipboard to the younger man. "Meet your new charge." And then the evil-doer is gone.

Doctor Cox and John stare at one another with growing disdain.

"Listen, Newbie—" the older man starts but is immediately interrupted.

"I don't care if you watch me or not. I'll make a report, and you can sign it when I'm finished."

"Hold on a second—"

"Or not. I don't really care." The younger man starts to walk away.

"Hey! Kendra! What do you think you're—"

A wailing flatline echoes from a nearby room, and both men freeze, the medical switches in their brains flipping to _total control_.

"Need a crash cart!" the older man yells just as John shouts, "Code!"

John is closer—he reaches the room first.

0 o 0 o 0

Doctor Cox has never seen anyone work so fast or so efficiently (outside himself, of course). John has the patient prepped and ready before the older man even makes it into the room. Vitals are checked, compressions are started, and the look on the young man's face is determined.

John is used to faster response times. Had the hospital always been this slow?

"Where the _fuck_ is that crash cart?" he seethes as Doctor Cox places a manual air pump over the patient's mouth and nose.

"It's coming, Newbie," he says calmly. As he pumps air into the patient's lungs, John notices a frothy foam bubbling around the dying person's mouth.

He stops, suddenly, and turns away, searching the drawers around the room.

"Hey!" Doctor Cox yells. "What the hell are you—"

John returns to the hospital bed with a scalpel and a long, slender tube. "Fluid in his lungs," he explains breathlessly and with just a touch of annoyance. At home, no one questions him—not even Perry. If he leaves a man to die on the table—not that he ever does—the others follow suit without a second's hesitation.

He grabs the stethoscope dangling around Doctor Cox's neck and shoves the ear pieces into his own ears, placing the chest piece on the patient's torso and listening intently for a good three seconds on each side. Removing the stethoscope, he makes a decision.

Quickly, and with little effort, John makes a small incision in the patient's side and slides the tube into the incision between two ribs, forcefully penetrating the right lung. Doctor Cox watches with bated breath as a clear, red-tinged fluid flows from the tube onto the floor. Several nurses enter the room with the crash cart. John holds up a hand, stopping them before they start to unload. His gaze is glued to the heart monitor.

"Newbie—"

"Just _wait_," the younger doctor demands, one hand still raised. After another ten seconds, Doctor Cox growls and grabs the crash cart himself, wheeling it over.

John frowns. "I said—" He's cut off by the Irishman's order to charge the paddles. "Doctor Cox—" The cart emits a high, keening pitch. "Perry!" John practically throws himself over the patient to stop the other man.

"Clear!" Doctor Cox says in a warning tone. He starts to lower the paddles. John grabs a hold of them, pressing the older man's fingers down on the trigger buttons.

John jerks with a painful grunt and collapses to the ground just as the wailing flatline stutters into a steady rhythm.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 20th 2016_

Melissa Sanchez, a young CNA who helps stock supplies every now and again, is the only witness to JD's collapse. He's standing at the counter one second, filling out a recent patient's chart, and the next, he's on the floor, fingers entangled in his scrubs top just over his heart.

"Doctor Cox!" she screeches, leaning down and placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. JD grunts and curls in on himself, gasping as if the wind was just suddenly knocked out of him.

Perry bursts through the curtain opening, searching the room wildly before his gaze lands on the two of them. "What happened?" he demands, hurrying toward them and bending to one knee to examine the other man.

"I-I don't know!" Melissa stammers, shaking her head. "He just . . . went down!"

Perry carefully rolls JD onto his back, fighting the young man the whole time. "Did he say anything? Did he look like he was in any pain?"

"Not before he fell," the young woman says. "He hasn't said anything."

"JD," Perry says loudly over the other's groaning. "I need you to calm down! What's going on?"

"My chest," JD manages. "H-Hurts! God!" He squints his eyes shut . . . then goes limp.

0 o 0 o 0

"What's wrong with him?" Dan asks, determinedly striding towards the Irishman. This is one hell of a welcoming party. He and Turk have been gone for near a week, scouting possible new locations. Elliot had suggested one up north so that she and her band could enjoy a little "southern comfort" for once. Dan hadn't imagined things would get so out of hand while he was away. "Coxie, talk to me," he demands.

For once, Perry doesn't know what to say. They've run tests, taken blood, asked questions. There isn't much else they can do but wait.

"I don't know," the doctor says, his voice husky as he runs a hand over his face. "He . . . I don't know."

An incredulous look takes Dan's face. "What do you _mean_ you _don't know_?"

Perry scowls. "I mean _I. Don't. Know_. He collapsed. We're monitoring him. There isn't anything more we can _do_, Dan."

The younger man deflates, looking past the doctor to the curtain shielding his not-brother from the rest of the compound.

_/Dan pushes through the crowd of people, searching frantically for familiar faces. The containment camp is packed and humid, full of sweating men and women, wailing children. People fight to remain standing—get knocked to the ground, and you're as good as dead._

"_Johnny! Coxie!" he calls, ignoring the odd looks he receives from strangers. _

"_Dan!" someone shouts across the crowd, and he whips around, his heart fluttering and his breath seizing in his throat. A pair of waving arms catch his attention, and he almost sobs at the sight of Perry's filthy face. They fight through the crowd to get to one another, frantic hysteria causing them to embrace._

_Pulling apart, Dan leaves his hands on the other's shoulders, fingers entangled in the tattered shirt. "Is he here?" he breathes huskily._

_Perry looks remorseful as he shakes his head. "They took him to a different camp. I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . ." He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth. _

_Dan squeezes his shoulders. "Do you think they know who he is?"_

_The older man swallows hard. "I don't think so . . . But I'm not sure. They didn't act like they knew who he was."_

_Dan nods. "Okay." He glances around, eyes searching warily. "So what's the game plan, here?"_

_Perry's face sets grimly. "We find the others—as many as we can." His gaze shifts over the crowd surrounding them. "We're going to need some help."_

"_I can do that," the elder of the Dorian brothers promises. "And then?"_

_The Irishman growls low in his throat. "We go and get my fucking husband."/_

Three days and two nights without food or water. And, finally, they'd rebelled, screaming John Michael Dorian's name as they faced gunfire and bloodshed. It took a week to find their _leader_, the one who had started it all, and when they'd stormed the camp, taken up arms against the captors, and freed the young man, he was ready to fight with them—_for _them. John had stopped being "JD" in that moment, and no one looked at him without an awed respect from that day forward.

Dan remembers every damn second of this war, every pointless death, every action taken and word said. Years from now, unbeknownst to Daniel Dorian, he will write a book about his brother and the war and the pain and suffering they were forced to endure. His memories will be the start of a new history—one without violence and rage and corrupt government and military officials.

Daniel Dorian will not live to see his work, his memoir, published. He will barely live to see the end of the war. But he _will_ see a new beginning, and it will be worth it.

So, with all of this unknown to him, he slides back the curtain of JD's hospital room, sits beside his not-brother on the bed, and falls asleep next to the young man who temporarily holds the title of the great _John Michael Dorian_.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 20st 2009_

_/John remembers the day that he is caught and separated from Perry and the others. The young man is wearing the Irishman's lab coat. Doctors are being rounded up and taken to separate camps. He finds several people from Sacred Heart, including Bob Kelso and that creepy guy who works in the lab. Many doctors are taken, interviewed, and released. A few are executed, their bodies left outside the camp as a warning. _

_John stays quiet and bides his time, keeping his head low as doctor after doctor is taken and either released or killed. As the week continues, more doctors are killed than released. And, finally, he's brought to _the room_. _

_They frown and demand his name, where he works, what kind of doctor he is._

"_My name is Jimmy Miller," he lies easily enough. "I'm a veterinarian at the animal shelter." They check his story. There _is_ a Jimmy Miller at the animal shelter. He's thirty years old with a wife and two sons. He pays his taxes, gives to charity, attends local sporting events, and is an all-around upstanding citizen. _

_What their records don't show, however, is that Jimmy was killed days ago in the chaos, and that Jimmy and his wife, Amy, and John had all gone to high school together, and that Amy had tearfully offered her deceased husband's identity to John so that he might live. _

_John has all the proper identification—social security card, altered drivers license, even a passport with his picture and Jimmy's name._

_They seem convinced, enough to release him, anyway. But then the trouble starts. Riots in the camp—fires and fights. They have no time to process him now, so back in the camp he goes. But the riots are a distraction, and before he knows what is happening, he is grabbed, tugged, and lugged by familiar faces—and some not-so-familiar—until the most familiar of them all is there, and John breathes his last easy breath for a long time./_

John wakes with a start, unfamiliar hands gripping his shoulders and his arms. His eyes search frantically, shapes blurring and moving too fast for him to focus.

"Johnny!" Dan's voice calls, his tone holding worry and fear.

"Newbie, come on! Snap out of it!" Doctor Cox's angry voice growls from his other side.

Almost immediately, John stops struggling, closing his eyes against the nausea churning in his stomach.

"What—" he tries, but the word is like grating sandpaper, his tongue covered in a thick paste that gunks in the back of his throat. Something cold is pressed to his lips, and he allows his mouth to be filled with ice chips.

He tries again. "What's going on? What happened?"

"You d-fibbed yourself, is what happened!" the Irishman snarls, though the anger in his voice does little to mask the fear. "You've been out almost all day."

Dan jumps into the conversation. "_You_ were holding the paddles!" he protests. He'd seen it happen, had been looking for his not-brother to apologize about the way he had been acting.

"He pushed the damn buttons himself!"

John raises a hand, silencing the two men and drawing their attention back towards himself. "How is Mr. Sypes?"

Doctor Cox's eyebrows draw together, and he frowns. "Who?"

"The patient," John says calmly, blinking tiredly as his vision slowly starts to adjust to the light and the two men standing on either side of his hospital bed. "The one that coded."

The older man purses his lips. "He's alive," he replies quietly, "thanks to you." He considers his next words carefully. "The lab says that if we had tried to shock his heart, he would have died instantly. Apparently there were some blockages that would have caused heart failure. It was the infection in his lungs that made him crash."

John nods as if he's heard the information before. In _his_ universe, Harold Jameson Sypes is the man who was a key component in finding a _cure_ for the disease. Without him, this universe has no chance.

"You knew about him," Doctor Cox states matter-of-factly.

John nods again. "I told you where I'm from."

"The future," the older man spits, but there is a hint of uncertainty in his tone. He stares at the young man warily. "The future," he repeats with a little more conviction.

"It's true," Dan confirms. "He isn't from here."

Doctor Cox almost snorts at the way Dan words his not-brother's difference. It makes John seem like an alien, someone who doesn't belong—which isn't entirely far from the truth. With another glance at the young man, who doesn't seem all that _young_ anymore, he grabs a chair beside the bed and sits down determinedly.

"Okay," he says, settling in for the long haul.

AN: Well, there you have it. I actually did manage to squeeze out a few tears while I was writing this! Dan's story really got to me. I'm even in the process of commissioning someone to write Dan's book! Any takers? *shifty eyes* Eh, may have to take on that job me-self. ;) Let me know how I'm doing! What are YOUR thoughts on what should be happening?

Oh, and a huge side note. I'm contemplating having an affair...Not ME personally, but an affair between John and Doctor Cox. What do you think? It'd make me write a little faster, I think...and it's be grounds for a third part ('cause no way will John or Perry address it in this part; uh-uh!). THOUGHTS! NEED THEM! Please?

Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side. :D


	5. Chapter Four

AN: This chapter is relatively shorter than the others, so I apologize for that. I should have the next chapter up by tomorrow or Thursday, at the latest, to make up for it. ;) Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing! They really keep me writing, even though my updates are not as close together as I'd like them to be...I'm going to work on that. Promise! Enjoy!

Chapter Four:

_One Week Later—February 27th 2016_

JD has been up and about for a few days. There is still no explanation for his _episode_, and the others have been keeping an eye on him, to his _great_ annoyance.

Every time he winces—"JD?"

"I'm fine."

Every time he stumbles—"Johnny?" _pop_

"I'm _fine_."

Every time he has to stop walking for a moment and take a breather—"Newbie?"

"_I'm fine_."

Every time he is or isn't hungry, is or isn't tired, is or isn't a hundred different things—"Bambi?"

"_I'm fine_!"

Until, one day, things are not _fine_.

"How are things on your end, 'Nilla Bear?" Turk says into his radio. No answer crackles in response. "Hey, J-Dawg. What's happening? You there?" Still no answer. The pit of Turk's stomach begins to drop. "Dan? You getting any chatter from JD on your end?"

A moment passes, and the hope that his radio is just broken or on the wrong frequency passes through his thoughts.

But Dan answers with a nervous "No," dashing that hope instantly. "Where was he stationed?"

"About half-a-mile west of the bunker," Turk says with regret. Even if they run, will they get there in time if something is wrong?

"I'm closer. I'll go," Dan offers, as if reading Turk's mind. "If I don't radio in about five minutes . . . . ." He lets the sentence hang ominously.

"Understood," Turk says reluctantly, flipping the radio to the bunker's frequency. "Chocolate Bear to base."

After a moment, Perry's gruff, disgruntled tone crackles through the small speaker. "Yeah, go ahead."

Turk sighs. "We may have a problem."

0 o 0 o 0

"_Gone_?" Perry asks incredulously. Turk and Dan stand in front of him, shifting uncomfortably as if they have been sent to the principals office. "What do you mean _gone_? He didn't just vanish into thin air."

"No," Dan says, his face distraught as he holds out JD's radio—the one he had found on the ground not a quarter of a mile from the bunker. "He didn't."

Perry snatches the object, an angry growl dying in his throat as his fingers slide against something wet and sticky.

JD's radio is covered in blood.

0 o 0 o 0

JD's head hurts. He can feel the blood matting his hair into a tangled clump just above the back of his neck. It feels disgusting.

He has been blindfolded, gagged, bound, and shoved into an alarmingly uncomfortable position. He hears whispers and chuckling and banter. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that he was on a school bus.

"He sure likes to squirm," a girl's voice says near him.

_A girl? _he thinks. _Jesus! She doesn't sound older than ten!_

"Should we knock 'im out or something?" a young boy's voice asks from further away.

The doctor doesn't like the flippancy in the boy's tone, as if kidnapping and rendering a complete stranger unconscious is a common occurrence. _Who knows? _he thinks. _Maybe it is in this universe._

"Nah, leave 'im be." This voice is older but still young—maybe a teenager.

"Are we sure he's the right one?" a timid voice asks. "He seems . . . different. _Wrong_."

"Well, we can always find out," the older voice says. "Hey!" JD grunts as a boot lands roughly on his abdomen. "Are you John Dorian?"

JD shakes his head frantically, taking deep breaths through his nose. The gag in his mouth restricts his airflow.

The timid voice wails. "I told you he didn't look right! It's not him! We're abductors!"

The older voice scoffs. "We're abductors whether he's the guy or not, "he states matter-of-factly. "And, anyway, he's lying." JD receives another kick to the stomach. "He's Dorian."

"How do you know?" the boy from before asks, doubt creeping into his tone.

"Because," the teen grinds out determinedly, "John Dorian killed my father."

0 o 0 o 0

"Do you think they'll know?" Dan asks worriedly, pacing in front of the others. "Do you think they'll see?" _pop_

"They're not blind," Perry growls from his place on a stool in the examination room. "They'll see that he's . . . young."

"There's no way they'll think it was him," Turk interjects, sitting next to Carla on the cold, metal table. "He would have been . . . in _med_ school when the war started here."

"Are we sure it was _them_?" Carla asks skeptically.

"Who else could it be?" _pop_

"Any _number_ of organizations," Perry counters, standing, crossing his arms, and losing himself in thought. "Dozens of groups sprang up after the war—not _all_ of them were in protest."

"So some _war support group_ could have him," Dan huffs incredulously. "They'll kill him!"

"Not necessarily," Perry says, though his tone is a little less than convincing. "They have to take him to the military first. They'll want credit for his capture."

"After all that hype about JD's comeback video, they'll want to see him in person," Turk says in understanding.

Perry sighs and swallows hard. "We're going to need some help."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 27th 2009_

John's search for Jeremy Hollock, the boy who started it all, becomes frantic.

"He should have been here by now," he mutters to himself as he wanders the halls of Sacred Heart.

"Waiting for someone, Bambi?" Carla asks as he stops at the nurses station and stares at the hospital entrance.

"Yeah," John says absently, putting his hands on his hips and slowly pacing the corridor.

Carla sighs and places the chart in her hands on the counter, crossing her arms. She does not particularly like this version of her Bambi. He is abrupt and not very sociable. Sure, he's a little more put-together than their JD—well, _a lot_ more put-together—and he's quick and efficient at his job. He obviously has more experience and training, and he's well-disciplined. But . . . .

Carla frowns as her mind turns up blank. _'But' what? _she thinks. What is it about their own JD that makes this imposter inferior?

Kelso has already given him a raise and made him Chief Resident alongside Elliot. Perry has shown him more respect in the last few weeks than the older doctor has shown . . . _anyone_. Dan actually has decent conversations with him, even jokes around. He's _never_ been that way with his real brother. What's so great about some stranger who is everything that JD isn't? . . . And more?

Carla returns from her thoughts and nearly jumps out of her skin when she finds John's intense eyes watching her curiously.

"I can hear you thinking," he says gently, offering a tight smile. "What's wrong?" Carla bites the inside of her cheek and shifts uncomfortably. John leans forward and whispers, "If you're anything like the Carla in my universe—and you seem to be—I know you want to say something. So just say it."

Before the nurse can decide whether she's been insulted or not, she blurts, "You're ruining Bambi's life." She places a hand over her mouth and has the decency to blush.

One corner of John's mouth quirks. _Not quite like my Carla_, he thinks. "How's that?" he asks calmly.

Carla lowers her hand and furrows her eyebrows. "You're better," she confesses, "at _everything_. You're making him look bad."

"I thought I was making him look _good_," John protests without any real conviction.

The nurse gives him a pointed look. "You know what I mean." She glances around to make sure there are no eavesdroppers. "When he gets back, he's going to have a lot to live up to. You're making things difficult for him."

John's stoic nature begins to melt away, and he leans against the nurses station, tired eyes directed toward her. "I haven't done anything that he _won't _do," he says, his words slow and careful, "and I haven't done anything that I think he won't be able to handle."

Carla can see, now, why he makes such an effective leader. His words bring an immediate sense of comfort, and the smile he gives her—a genuine _JD_ smile—warms her very being.

"Tenga una fe pequeña, Carla." [1]

0 o 0 o 0

"San Francisco," Doctor Cox says determinedly, tapping the screen of the hospital computer. "That's where your kid is."

John falters for only a fraction of a second. His _kid_? No, _his_ kid is in another universe, probably worried sick or hating his guts right now.

"Good," he says firmly, his lips tightening into a grim line as he scans the address. "Let's go." He starts out of the room.

"Whoa!" Turk says, holding up a hand. " 'Let's go'? Are you serious? We can't just _leave_!"

"Then stay," John forces, his words harsh. "I'll go by myself."

"But—"

"Hey!" the rebel leader shouts, sounding every bit like the man who has held an army together. "You want to stick around here and wait for the war and the sickness and the _dying_ to come to you, by all means—_stay here_." He fixes both men with a steely gaze. "I'm not going to let this happen again."

He does an abrupt about-face and storms out of the room.

He ignores the friendly "hellos" in the hallways, the inquiries from interns and the blaring pager that he slams down on the nurses station—one piece of technology that he does _not_ miss where he is from—before heading toward the exit. Dan is outside waiting for him, leaning against a blue Sudan.

"You got it?" he asks, keys jingling in his hand.

"Got it," he says curtly, stopping beside his not-brother and holding something out. "Do me a favor," he says hesitantly as Dan takes the object and raises an eyebrow at it. "Just . . . chew on this for a while?"

The elder of the Dorian sons studies him a moment before deciding something, unwrapping the object, and putting it in his mouth.

John nods with satisfaction, starting around the car to the passenger side.

"So—" _pop_ "—are those two coming?"

John turns to face the hospital, finding Turk and Doctor Cox grudgingly headed towards them.

"Guess so," he murmurs, opening the car door and climbing in.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 27th 2016_

JD is thrown out of the vehicle, blindfold still covering his eyes. He grunts as he impacts with the ground, groaning and turning onto his back. Several feet plop down around him, and for a moment he thinks one of them might jump on him on purpose. He braces himself, but nothing comes except for the harsh voice of the teen.

"Get 'im up."

Small hands grab him and haul him to his feet. He winces as his left knee protests the movement. It must be jarred.

"Let's go."

Fingers fist the fabric of his jacket, pulling him along. He stumbles blindly and says nothing. The first thing that Perry had taught him about being caught: don't try to negotiate with your captors.

_Generally_, Perry had said, _your captors will be military, and trying to negotiate will only get you hurt. _

_What if they aren't military? _JD had asked.

_Then they're being blackmailed by the military, and they're dangerous and just desperate enough to kill you._

These people—_children_, more accurately—obviously aren't military, which means they probably have no reservations about killing him.

He allows them to tug and push and yell and hit. When he falls, he says nothing as they kick him and pull him to his feet again. And when he's stopped, un-blindfolded, and shoved onto his knees in front of an angry-looking military man, he makes not a sound.

"General," the teen says, his tone quivering, "we have John Dorian."

AN: Later, Gators! Catch you in the next chapter. ;D

[1] "Have a little faith, Carla."


	6. Chapter Five

AN: Well...It's been a while. All right, it's been _more_ than a while. I apologize profusely and all that, and there's really no excuse for the procrastination except that I've been looking for a job. A _better_ job, I should say. One that will pay my student loans when the time comes. So, enjoy this chapter, peeps. I promise to try and update as soon as possible this time. Enjoy!

Chapter Five:

_February 27th 2016_

John studies the man towering over him. He doesn't seem like much—just a man in his mid-fifties with short, peppered hair, a permanent frown marring a leather-skinned face, and a gut on the verge of popping the button on his uniform—but the young man is fully aware how much power this man holds over a good portion of the country.

If possible, the man's frown deepens, and he narrows his eyes at JD. "What _is_ this?" he demands, snapping an accusatory gaze on the group of young people. JD chances a look behind him and finds that his captors are, in fact, children, the oldest looking closer to thirteen.

The teen gives JD a wary look. "It's John Dorian, Sir," he says, though the confidence in his voice has waned.

The general makes an incredulous sound in the back of his throat. "You must be joking!" he huffs. "This is _not_ John Dorian!"

The teen's mouth opens and closes several times before he speaks again. "But, Sir, we found him near the bunker, where you said your soldiers spotted activity."

Giving JD another scrutinizing look, the general barks, "What's your name, boy?"

JD would have frowned at the use of the word _boy_, but there are other pressing matters, such as remembering the alias Perry taught him. "Jimmy Miller, Sir," he says as timidly as he can muster, which isn't far off from the tone he would have used anyway. "I-I'm a veterinarian."

"He's lying," the teen says, eyes wide as he shakes his head. "Sir, he's—"

"Check his pockets," the general demands gruffly.

The teen complies quickly, his fingers shaking and fumbling in the young man's pockets. JD grits his teeth and silently thanks whatever god might be listening that he hadn't worn John's signature scrubs (he'd chosen jeans for the cool morning) and that Turk and Dan didn't allow him to carry a gun yet. It would have looked suspicious if a supposed veterinarian was walking around in hospital-issue scrubs with a P-90.

The teen finds JD's—formly John's—fake identification and flips it open desperately. Paling, he says, "No! No, this isn't right! I _know_ he's—"

The general snatches the wallet from the teen's hands, looking over the contents with a scowl. "You didn't check him before you brought him here?" he growls angrily, throwing the wallet to the ground.

The teen backs away, holding his hands up. "It's gotta be a fake. I'm _telling _you—"

Back-handing him across the face, the military man shouts, "I've heard _enough_ from you!" The teen falls to the floor, clutching his throbbing cheek as the general turns sharply and presses a button on his desk. Immediately, several soldiers enter the room, looming over the children intimidatingly.

"Take them away," the general orders, sweeping a hand over the group, "and make sure they know what we do to traitors in this country."

The children begin to cry, clinging to one another and staring with horrified eyes at the stoic soldiers.

"Wait, you can't do that!" JD shouts suddenly. "They're just kids!"

A boot is put to his back, and he's shoved forward onto the floor, pressed into the grungy, dust-laced concrete.

"And this one, Sir?" a soldier asks above him.

The general contemplates the man on his floor before saying, "Take him with you. Put him and any of the survivors in the camp with the rest of them."

JD is hauled to his feet and shoved behind the group of sobbing children and an angry teen, wondering if the nightmares about what's going to happen next will last his whole life.

0 o 0 o 0

The teen's name is Russel. JD learns this between hiccups and sobs when he is locked up with the children and the teen is taken for "questioning."

One-by-one, the children are taken: Marie, age six, who likes to read and misses her puppy that she had to leave behind when her family fled their home; Andrew, age nine, who wishes he had a few choice chemicals from his parents' lab—he could blow right through that door no problem, you know?; Jared and Jake, age seven, the twins who bicker and fight while tears are in their eyes and their arms are wrapped around one another; Tina, age seven-and-a-half, who wants to be a writer like her mother was and wishes she could live through all of this so that she might tell their story; Sarah, age eleven, who wonders if Russel's all right because she has plans for them, damn it—they're going to get married when she's 18 and have four children and live happily-ever-after in Italy, where the war just _isn't—_and she prays that Russel is okay because if he's not . . . if he's not . . . ; and, finally, Christopher, age four, who had no mommy or daddy even before the war and who lived with his granny until one day he was hungry and she wouldn't get up from the couch no matter how much he cried and how much he shook her.

And when they are all gone, JD lets himself cry—the only one to mourn the deaths of eight children who died because of John Michael Dorian.

0 o 0 o 0

_February 27th 2009_

John wakes with a start, stifling a scream at the back of his throat.

"Johnny?" Dan asks from beside him. The car is stopped. John fumbles with the seatbelt until his not-brother finally steps in and clicks the release button. John flails desperately to get the thing off of him. It might seem comical, except for the fact that the young man is hyperventilating and on the verge of tears.

"Johnny, calm down," Dan says quietly. He's startled when John whips around on him, wet eyes wide and dangerous, teeth clenched and bared.

"Don't call me that," he seethes, taking in a long, wheezing breath. "Don't _fucking_ call me that!"

The passenger side door opens abruptly, and John is pulled from the car by the collar of his shirt.

"Hey!" Doctor Cox yells into his face as he slams him against the back door. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

John continues to wheeze, his throat closing slowly around an angry retort. Raising his arms, he clutches tightly to the other man's shirt.

Doctor Cox looks concerned. "Kid?"

It's not exactly the endearment that he wants, but it will do. John tugs the man forward with the strength he has left, meeting him half way and locking their lips. From inside the car, John hears Turk make his dramatic gasping noise while Dan simply says, "Whoa."

Doctor Cox doesn't struggle—not at first because he is too surprised to react, and not when the kiss lasts longer than he expects it to because it seems to be calming the other man down . . . and because it feels strangely _nice_. Just as he is considering responding to the kiss, John pulls back, his eyes glassy and his breathing, thankfully, even.

"Better?" the Irishman asks a little breathlessly, watching as a goofy smirk appears on the younger man's face.

"Not bad," John says quietly.

Doctor Cox frowns. "You okay?"

John's fingers carefully uncurl from the man's shirt, and he closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the car. "Fine," he states simply. "Where are we?"

The older man frowns deeper at the brush-off but answers the question. "San Francisco. We're outside that kid's house."

John's eyes fly open, and he breaks away from the Irishman's hold. "This one?" he points, already starting toward the front steps.

"Hey, hold on a second!" Doctor Cox demands, grabbing hold of the younger man's arm. John twists in his hold until the older doctor's arm is twisted behind his back. Growling from behind the man's shoulder, John says, "Don't touch me."

Doctor Cox's response is a huff and an agitated, "So, you can _kiss_ me, but I can't _touch _you?" to which John replies, "Yes," and release him.

"Are you sure you really want to do this?" the older man asks, following the other up the steps. "What if the kid isn't sick?"

John knocks frantically on the door. "He is."

0 o 0 o 0

"He isn't," Doctor Frank Scott of San Francisco Medical insists, holding the results out to the young couple standing in front of him. Mrs. Hollock reaches a tentative hand to take it, but John snatches the folder before she even grazes it with her fingers.

"I _told_ you," he says, waving the file around exaggeratedly, "these tests are inconclusive. You don't have the right equipment here." He whirls around on Doctor Cox and gives him an imploring look. "We have to take him to Sacred Heart."

"Our machines work just fine, Doctor Dorian," Scott says somewhat indignantly, turning back to Mrs. Hollock. "We ran every test possible _multiple _times. Your son is fine."

John steps between the woman and Scott, his back blocking the doctor from her sight. "Carol," he says carefully, making sure to look her directly in the eye—a tactic he has found to be quite useful as the leader of a rebel faction, "listen to me. Jeremy needs medical attention. He is very, _very_ sick, and he's going to make a lot of other people sick." John stops and swallows, taking a deep shuddering breath before continuing. "People will die. Your _son_ will die. This is going to have a lot of consequences if you don't come with me _now_."

Standing to the side, Perry furrows his eyebrows, watching the young man carefully. He has never seen a more serious look on anyone's face before, especially not on Newbie's face . . . But that's just the point, isn't it? This man is _not_ Newbie. He's far from it, in fact. John has all the qualities of the leader he claims to be, and Doctor Cox, though hesitant to admit it, is _impressed_.

Doctor Scott scoffs from behind John, shaking his head. "This man is a lunatic. I'm calling security."

Before the man can move, however, Doctor Cox steps forward, addressing Mrs. Hollock. "He's telling the truth," he says firmly. "Your son's illness is going to hurt a _lot_ of people unless you come with us _now_."

0 o 0 o 0

Carol Hollock is not an idiot.

Her husband is in the military, so she has spent much of her married life making decisions—_alone_. This decision seems rather large compared to the others, but a decision is still a decision, and at the end of the day, she will have to live with the fact that, right or wrong, she will _again_ have to make one—_alone_.

Staring at the desperate men before her, however, she can't help but hesitate at their differing opinion. Her son, Jeremy, will always come first, no matter what. But the boy hasn't had so much as a sniffle since he got the chicken pocks when he was three. He is one of the healthiest young men that any doctor has ever seen, and before today, she's been told so many times by several physicians. If Jeremy is sick, then her keen parental senses are severely lacking.

"Gentlemen," she says carefully, looking at each man in turn, then glancing out the office window at Jeremy, who sits patiently in the waiting area, "I'm taking my son home now."

Doctor Scott looks smug. The red-headed man looks pissed off. The young one looks . . . He looks the same. His expression hasn't changed at all, like he's still waiting for her to answer. It's . . . _unnerving_.

She swallows and sighs. "I'm sorry," she murmurs before turning and leaving.

Jeremy looks up as the door opens, a bored look on his face. "Can we go home now, Mom?"

Her smile is tight, and she can't help but stare at him a moment before nodding and saying, "Yeah, sweetie. Let's go."

0 o 0 o 0

John is quiet the entire trip home. Doctor Cox relays the story to Turk and Dan and attempts to draw the young man into the conversation, but he still says nothing.

"Johnny?" _pop. _"You all right?"

"Fine," John finally says, his head resting against the window. "Just tired."

_pop_. "We still got a while to drive yet. You should get some sleep."

John shifts in his seat, making no move to look at any of the car's passengers. "Do me a favor," he says softly, closing his eyes and folding in on himself—not a hard task despite his defined physique.

"Sure, Johnny," Dan concedes, alternating between looking at the young man and watching the road. "What do you need?"

John is quiet for a moment, then he says, "Spit out that gum."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 28th 2009_

John refuses an escort up to his apartment. Dan insists. John still refuses. Dan still insists.

"I'm fine," John says softly, opening the car door and stepping out into a drizzle. Clouds form overhead, dark and threatening more rain.

"You _aren't_," Dan states matter-of-factly, bowing his head slightly to get a better look at his not-brother.

He and John stare at one another for a long moment before the younger Dorian son shakes his head and says, "I'm going to get some sleep." His gaze flicks to the back seat. "I suggest you do the same."

Turk leans forward. "You mind dropping me off at the hospital? I got a shift in a few hours. I'll just sleep in the on-call room."

Dan gives John one last pleading glance before sighing and facing forward. "Sure thing, T."

John closes the passenger-side door, and the Sudan starts away. When the vehicle pulls far enough ahead, it reveals a figure standing in the street.

John frowns. "You should have left with the others." The rain begins to fall more rapidly, soaking their dirty scrubs and plastering their hair to their faces. The young man tries again, his voice weak and holding little conviction. "You shouldn't be here, Perry."

Doctor Cox watches him with reddened eyes, his lips drawn into thin lines and his face scrunching as the rain only worsens. "You kissed me," he states flatly, rain water flying from his mouth and chin.

John blinks sluggishly and nods. "Yeah, I kissed you." He swallows and glances around the barren street. The clouds are thickening, making everything dark in the morning hour. "I had to."

"You _had_ to?" the older man scoffs. "Pray tell, Lucy: what would have happened if you hadn't?"

John is quiet for a moment before he takes a short breath and explains. "My throat would have swollen shut, and I would have choked . . . on air."

The smug look on Doctor Cox's face disappears, and he swallows, shifting uncomfortably before saying, "You would have died."

John nods. "If I hadn't kissed you, yes."

There is a long moment of quiet between the men before the older of the two clears his throat and says, "Well . . . I have to say, that's probably the most extreme excuse anyone has ever made to get me to kiss them."

The young man can't help the bark of laughter that escapes his throat, and he is immensely glad for the rain as tears form in his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like something he would say."

The other's head cocks to the side, and he asks, "Who?"

John purses his lips, furrowing his eyebrows and shaking his head. "Why are you here?"

Doctor Cox mirrors the action. "Who are you talking about?"

John clenches his teeth. They've played this game before, he and Perry. The older man usually wins—but _this_ man in _this_ time is not his Perry. And John has a certain edge to him that this universe is not used to.

"_Why _are you _here_?"

"_Who_ are you talking about?"

"That's none of your business."

"You can't _ask_ questions and not expect to answer a few yourself, Newbie," Doctor Cox counters easily, stepping forward as the wind begins to pick up.

"You don't believe me when I tell you things about the future." John holds up a hand to stop the older man from interrupting him. "You're curious, right?" He smirks when the other man remains quiet. "I mean, I've been right about a few things. So what? It could just be dumb luck." He shrugs. "But you want to see it play out. You want to see if the great and powerful John Michael Dorian really exists."

"Hey," Doctor Cox starts, his tone conveying guilt, "that's not—"

"It is," John says with a nod, "and it's fine. I wouldn't believe a crazy person like me either." He swallows and takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes. "But—"

A clap of thunder breaks his train of thought, and his eyes fly open again in time to see a flash of lightening, followed by more thunder.

Doctor Cox starts forward, grabbing John's upper arm and pulling him towards the apartment complex. "Come on. There's no point having this conversation out here." John allows the man to lead him inside and to the elevator. "What floor?"

Instead of speaking, John leans forward and presses the _close doors_ button, leaning back against the wall of the car and studying the other doctor intently. "What," the young man asks calmly, "are you expecting?"

Doctor Cox furrows his eyebrows and slowly begins to shake his head. "What are you—"

"You said I kissed you."

"You _did_."

"Yes, but you didn't have to bring it up again."

"Why _wouldn't_ I bring something like that up?" Doctor Cox glances at the elevator buttons. "What floor?"

"You'd only bring it up if you'd been _thinking_ about it." John's eyes narrow. "_Have_ you?"

"That's not the _point_, Newbie!"

"I'm not 'Newbie,' Perry."

"And I'm not 'Perry,' Charlotte."

An uncomfortable silence fills the elevator before John nods towards the buttons and says, "Three."

Perry presses the button harshly, grinding his teeth and crossing his arms as the elevator starts the short ride upwards. When the small car stops and the doors open, John makes no move to exit the space.

"You gonna stay in here all night?" Doctor Cox jabs with little malice.

"It'd be better than facing myself in the morning," the young man says softly, leaning his head back and staring at the elevator ceiling.

The older man presses his lips to together tightly, knowing he shouldn't ask but doing so anyway. "What do you mean by that?"

John closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, Perry. Please . . . just leave."

"Why?" Doctor Cox doesn't miss a beat, his tone harsh, demanding . . . and just the slightest bit frightened. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Leave," John pleads again, his voice begging the older man anything but. "Leave, and it will be over. Leave, and you won't have to worry about me."

The other man growls low in his throat, crowding John against the elevator and smacking a hand, palm flat, against the wall. "You're killing yourself."

"And what if I deserve to die?" John asks softly. "What if I've killed more people than I've saved? What if I've put guns into the hands of children and told them to fight a war they know nothing about?" He runs trembling fingers across his chest, down to his abdomen. "What if every scar still burns like it's brand new?"

Doctor Cox swallows hard and shakes his head. "That's what we pay psychiatrists obscene amounts of money for—so they'll listen to us whine about why our lives are so horrible and give us candy to make the pain go away."

"Right," John breathes softly. "I'm pretty sure the last psychiatrist I went to ended up killing himself."

"All the more reason to see another."

The younger man allows himself a smile. "You should hold on to that, Perry . . . I miss that about you."

"Miss what?"

John is quiet before he says, "Humor."

Doctor Cox sighs. "Are you really this fucked up?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

"It's Saturday."

"Exactly."

"What do you need me to do?" the older man asks seriously.

Shaking his head, John replies, "I need you to leave." He sucks in a breath as Doctor Cox leans in closer, pressing their chests flush against one another.

"What do you need me to do?"

Hot breath ghosts over the young man's lips, and his tongue darts out to lick them nervously, his eyes still closed. "I need you . . . to leave."

Doctor Cox's mouth presses firmly against John's, the younger man whimpering and trying his best not to move. It isn't really a kiss. Their lips are mashed together, but neither of them make the final gesture. Doctor Cox waits for John to do something. John waits for it to be over. They are at a stalemate. Until, finally, the older man leans his head away.

"John," he says quietly, "I thought this is what you needed."

John swallows hard. "What I need," he whispers, opening his eyes to the harsh fluorescent lighting of the elevator car and Doctor Cox's expectant face, "is for you to leave." Without so much as another thought, he slides out from the other man's impending body and onto his floor.

The elevator doors click closed with a horrifying finality.

AN: Well, not gonna lie. This one was a tear-jerker for me. I mean, killing _kids_? Come on! That's just not right. And this chapter is actually longer than I initially planned it to be. I had to dip into chapter six to get it this long, and I have to say that I am happy with the result. :) So, stay tuned for the next chapter! Which will be up by the coming weekend, for sure.

Oh, and a, uh...warning for chapter seven (not the next chapter, but the one after that). There will be man-on-man action. Explicit man-on-man action. I rounded up the tallies for the affair between future!John and past!Doctor Cox, and the affair won out. Which means there _will_ be a third part to this series.

AND! I am officially writing Dan's book. Started it the other day, and it's coming along quite nicely. Won't be finished for a while, but I promise to post it somewhere once it's done. :)

Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	7. Chapter Six

AN: Okay, this chapter is considerably shorter than the others, which does not make me happy, but it has to be. The next chapter will more than make up for it, I promise. Also, the dates get a little messy for a couple of chapters. The universes get off-kilter a bit. But things will even out by the end. Really, they will! I can't wait to get to the end of this story-not because I want it to end, but because even _I_ want to know what the heck happens to everyone! Jeez, it's like a soap opera in my head. It's ridiculous! Anyway, enjoy this chapter.

And, of course, a big thank you to _Bells of Tomorrow_, without whose reviews there would possibly be no updating on this fic _ever_. You should go through the reviews and read them. Seriously epic. And then go check out _Bells of Tomorrow_'s fanfiction. Also quite epic. :)

Chapter Six:

_March 1st 2016_

Elliot Reed cannot believe the call when it comes. Perry Cox wants to meet with her. JD's husband—_John's _husband. It's weird calling him that now—_John_. Not as weird as calling Doctor Cox _Perry_, but . . . he's always been _JD_. Fun, loveable, _plain JD_.

_John_ does not suit his former personality. _John_ is the kind of man who leads people into battle and fights until his last breath. _John_ fires first and asks questions later. _John_ has crawled through muck and torture and blood. And _John_ has seen his family and friends and the people that choose to follow him through this war. Without _John_, there is no point.

So as the small caravan comes to a halt, the young woman squeezes the fingers in her hand and smiles weakly at the man sitting beside her.

Keith kisses her forehead. "Ready?" he asks, donning a forced smile of his own.

Elliot sighs. "As I'll ever be."

0 o 0 o 0

It has been a month since Barbie and her band of nomads were in the same vicinity as Perry and the others. The older doctor watches her enter the complex with her Ken doll firmly attached to her hand. With a schooled expression, she assesses the space with oddly calculating eyes. Not bad for a former ditz. Her hair isn't even very blonde anymore, the locks looking almost the color of soot in the dim lighting.

"Perry," she addresses carefully as she approaches him.

Several names run through the older doctor's mind, the current situation causing him to settle on a name he rarely calls her—her _own_. "Elliot."

Raising an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth quirks as she stops in front of him. "Wow, next thing you know, we'll be hugging."

"Don't hold your breath," Perry snorts with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms. Elliot doesn't so much as bat an eye, but Keith's adam's apple bobbles nervously.

"So," the young woman says coolly, holding her nerves down in as small and tight a coil as possible, "what's going on?"

Perry considers the young woman for a moment before nodding in silent decision and opening his mouth to speak. Before any words can escape his mouth, however, there is a high-pitched squeal of laughter. The three turn to find two small girls bounding in their direction. They breech the crowd and slam into Elliot at full-speed. Keith grabs hold of the young woman to steady her, but Elliot's balance holds strong, and she smiles down happily at the girls.

"Izzy! Jenny! Oh my gosh, you girls are getting so tall!"

The boys breech the crowd next, heading straight for Keith and tugging on his arms.

"Keith! Come see what we made out of tongue depressors and Uncle Dan's old gum!" Sammy says happily, sharing a wide grin with Jack.

"It's disgusting!" Jenny spits, scowling at the boys.

"_Really_ gross!" Izzy agrees with a nod of her head.

A loud whistle cuts through the chatter, and all heads, including a few from the crowd, turn in their direction. Perry, arms still crossed, glares at the children dangerously.

"I'm talking now," he says in a low voice that is barely audible to anyone but the few standing in front of him. "You need to go. This is grown-up time."

Jack looks like wants to protest with an _I am a grown up! _but one piercing glance from his father holds his words at bay. The kids reluctantly give the guests one last longing look before sullenly slouching into the crowd and disappearing in a sea of strangers.

Elliot frowns with disapproval. "They're just excited to see us," she reprimands. "Can't we visit for a minute before—"

"No," Perry says, cutting her off with a shake of her head. "No, we can't."

The young woman's eyebrows crinkle together. "That bad?"

Perry sighs, and for the first time since their reunion, he looks unsure. "Yeah," he concedes quietly. "That bad."

0 o 0 o 0

When JD is shoved into a crowded containment camp filled with defeated men, beaten women, and sobbing children, his first thought is that he has been killed and gone to hell in John Michael Dorian's place.

_You have the wrong man!_ he wants to scream. But it would be of no use.

No one pays him any attention. A few attempt to get information from him about the outside. When it is apparent that he knows nothing, he is abandoned entirely.

_Surely children don't belong in hell_, he thinks solemnly, studying the blank, ashen faces around him. One face in particular sticks out amidst the crowd—a face that stares back just as keenly as he searches the dismal place.

"Russel," JD says quietly, a relieved and sympathetic look softening his features.

Russel's face only hardens, his lips pulling back from his clenched teeth in a snarl. "You have no friends here!" he barks harshly, standing tall and strong in the crowd. "I'd tell them who you are and what you've done, but I doubt any of them could muster up an angry thought, let alone a furious mob, against you."

JD glances around self-consciously, but as the teen has said, no one seems to be paying much attention to either of them. He swallows dirt and dust and drags musty air into his lungs before saying, "The children?" His voice quivers, hope quashed by the angry tears welling in the young man's eyes.

Russel scowls. "Dead," he says huskily, starting toward the older man with long, determined strides. He reaches him in less than five steps. JD does not move. "Dead because of _you_ and your _lies_."

The fist to his left cheek is not unexpected—nor unanticipated. But JD takes it, and the several that follow, without protest.

"They're dead!" Russel screeches, tears falling free now. "Because of _you_!" His knuckles are sore and coated with blood—both his and JD's. "You _let_ them die!" His punches become weaker. "You did _nothing_!" JD's face is an alarming shade of purple and red. "They were _kids_!" Blood flies freely from his face with every punch. "_Kids_! How could you . . . How could _they_ . . . ." Russel's arms fall to his sides limply. "They killed them," he murmurs absently. "_They_ killed them."

JD watches the teen through the eye that isn't swelling shut. He seems out of steam now. Hopefully there won't be anymore punching involved. He may be forced to defend himself if the abuse continues—no matter how much he tells himself he deserves it.

"Russel," he gurgles, coughing and spitting the blood and mucus welling in his throat on the ground. He takes in a shuddering, liquid-like breath and wavers on his feet. "You mind . . . if we sit down?"

Russel seems to snap out of his daze, his features morphing into horror at the sight of JD's face—as if he is just seeing it for the first time. "Jesus," he mutters, taking hold of the older man's shoulder and beginning to lead him through the crowd.

It takes a while, and JD feels like dropping where he stands several times, but they finally weave their way to a surprisingly secluded spot. The stench of rot and decay filters through JD's plugged, and possibly broken, nose.

Through a bleary eye, he takes in the shifted earth beneath their feet, the mounds of dirt piled here and there. He needs no explanation as to why no one seems to be settled in this particular area; it is a graveyard, a make-shift burial ground for those who have died in the camp. Obviously the solders only take care of the corpses that can walk themselves out of this horrible place.

They sit, and JD is grateful. His entire body shakes from exhaustion. Russel mistakes it for something else.

"I won't hit you again," he promises, removing his jacket and beginning to rip the sleeves off. He tears them into strips with his teeth and begins to wipe the blood from JD's face. With every wince from the older man, Russel whispers an apology. And when JD finally silences him with a grumbled, "Please stop saying that," the young man takes to mirroring the action instead. "Gotcha pretty good, didn't I?" he asks solemnly.

JD huffs as if the words are a jest. "Well, I wasn't really fighting back, so I don't think it should—ow—count."

Russel offers a weak smile, which slips away just as quickly as it appears. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, sighing with a shake of his head. "For dragging you into this, I mean. I was . . . so _sure_."

"That I'm John Dorian," JD sighs, closing his eyes. "Yeah, I—ow—get that a lot."

"So . . . you aren't him?"

JD considers the question for a moment before saying, "Far from him, kid."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 28th 2009_

John barely makes it to his apartment door before he is surging back to the elevator, pressing the down button harshly and holding his breath. The doors slide open immediately; the elevator has not moved. Doctor Cox still stands in the same spot he was left in, his muscles tensing as he sees John again.

The younger doctor's chest heaves, his heart racing as Doctor Cox takes a step forward. He takes one to match. There is no hesitation when they meet—their lips clash hungrily.

0 o 0 o 0

_March 1st 2016_

JD sleeps for several hours before he is shaken awake abruptly.

"Jimmy!" Russel's desperate voice is enough to make the older man force his eyes open. The teen sighs in relief and swallows hard. "Jeez, I've been tryin' to wake you up for almost ten minutes."

JD sits up, which he finds is a mistake as his vision swims and a throbbing makes itself known behind his eyes—behind his entire face, really. "Must have a concussion," he murmurs, raising a hand to his head and moaning at the pain that the gesture elicits. "How long have I been out?"

Russel shrugs. "Most of the day. People are headed to the barracks now."

JD nods as if he understands. Really, his brain is far too addled to understand anything. "Must have a concussion," he mutters again, earning himself a worried look from the teen. The doctor closes his eyes and carefully shakes his head. "Sorry, I think . . . I already said that."

"Yeah." Russel nods. "You okay?"

"I don't know," JD answers truthfully. "I must have—"

"—a concussion," Russel finishes for him with a defeated tone.

JD looks grim. "I said that."

"Yeah," Russel says with a sigh, "you said that."

0 o 0 o 0

"Do you know where he is?" Elliot asks carefully, attempting not to show the dread on her face. She fidgets in the chair that was brought for her. The cheap plastic cuts into her legs, causing them to tingle and twitch uncontrollably.

Perry looks down at hands that somehow have managed to clasp together tightly without his knowledge. "Yeah," he says quietly. "We put a tracker in him."

"_In_ him?" Keith asks skeptically.

The older man shrugs. "It was the easiest way. If the general gets hold of him, he and his goons will take away anything we put on him."

"So _where_ is he?" Elliot asks impatiently, crossing her arms and staring Perry down.

"A containment camp. Ten miles west," the Irishman says grimly.

The woman frowns, uncrossing her arms and sitting forward. "You've never needed our help with a containment camp before."

Perry shakes his head. "That's not true."

Frustrated, Elliot throws her hands up and huffs. "That was _years_ ago! We were less experienced. And—" She stops as a thought hits her, looking up into Perry's exhausted eyes and finding the truth. "The _general_ was there."

"Yes," Perry says quietly, "he was."

Elliot is silent for a moment. "And the general is _there_, where JD is."

"Yes," Perry sighs, rubbing his face, "he is."

Elliot swallows and closes her eyes, remembering.

_/John was broken when they found him. He stood tall, and he put up one hell of a front, but the minute they found themselves in as safe a place as they would ever find again, John fell. His shattered bones and battered body crumpled, and the world went away—if only for a short while. _

_Elliot remembers the envy she felt, the unfairness of it all. Why was _he_ allowed to escape this place and not them? Why could _he_ fall away from everything, including responsibility, and not receive any consequences? _

_What was so special about _John Michael Dorian_? _

_And then the real war began. The young woman found herself out of her league. But John stepped forward, and a country stepped with him./_

"He won't survive that place," she says absently, her gaze still blurred from the memory, "not if the general has him."

"He has Jimmy's identification," Perry offers, though the words are weak and hold little confidence.

"They have John's picture," Keith sighs. "Even if he's as young as you say he is, they're bound to look closer if he seems suspicious."

"Then it's _our_ job to make sure the general doesn't _get _suspicious before we get him out of there," Perry argues. "We need a plan."

Elliot bites her lip. "I don't know about this, Perry," she says hesitantly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her left ear. "Last time, we had a _mob_ of people; the containment camp prisoners were willing to help. John hasn't made many friends since then."

"Look," the older doctor pleads, an odd quiver creeping into his voice, "I now the odds aren't in our favor right now." He glances around self-consciously, finding that he is speaking to more than just Elliot and Keith. Dan, Carla and Turk have joined the crowd and stare at him expectantly. "But that's never stopped us before. And it's certainly never stopped _John_ before."

The blonde smiles. "Never even made him hesitate," she says, her words strong and clear.

Perry nods gratefully. "Even though he isn't John—isn't _our_ John—he still belongs to _somebody_, and by helping him, we're giving another place a fighting chance."

After a silent moment, Elliot stands. "What do we have to do?"

AN: Well, I didn't plan on having only a snippet of _2009 _in there, but that's how it happened. The next chapter is, of course, centered mainly around the past!universe, and is, of course, rated NC-17 accordingly because of what is going to happen between our boys. The _wrong_ boys! For those of you who have enjoyed the story so far but don't want to get into the hot and heavy stuff, feel free to ignore the next post. I will certainly get you up to date in Chapter Eight with a quick summary in the author's note. No worries! Otherwise, buckle up, boys and girls. The next chapter is going to be . . . Well, you'll see, won't you?

Later, gators! Catch you on the flip side. ;)


	8. Chapter Seven

AN: Woo! What a day. They scheduled me as the front-end supervisor today at the grocery store. Haven't done that for a while. My feet are aching, and they'll only be worse tomorrow (later today, really, as it's 12:11am). Oh well. I have _Prince of Persia_ from Netflix to keep me company on my day off tomorrow (today). Yay!

I really wanted to get this chapter up a couple of days ago on Friday, but deadlines don't always work if I set them for myself. So, here is the chapter with the smut-smut. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION! And enjoy. :)

Chapter Seven:

_February 28th 2009_

They almost don't make it to the door, lips still connected as they stumble down the corridor. John fumbles blindly with the knob, twisting it with more force than necessary. Nearly falling back as the door jerks open, Doctor Cox kicks it shut when they are both safely inside.

And then they break apart, staring at one another as their chests heave painfully and their eyes rove over each other.

"You sure about this?" the older man asks, his tone not hesitant or uncertain in the least.

John figures he's only asking as a formality, because the young doctor can see the want and need in the other's eyes and knows it is reflected in his own. "Does it matter?" John asks, one eyebrow raised as he lifts his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the side, the dim apartment swallowing it whole.

Lightning flashes through the window across the room, illuminating the young man's well-toned body and striking harshly against his pale scars. So many scars. Doctor Cox wants the story behind all of them, wants to memorize their places on his skin and the way they feel against the flat of his tongue.

"Of course it matters," he lies huskily, licking his lips and removing his own shirt. "You're married, aren't you?" John falters, and Doctor Cox thinks he's made a mistake.

"Where did you hear that?" John asks quietly. Lightning floods the room again, and this time Doctor Cox finds a dangerous look on the young man's face.

" 'Does it matter?'" he asks, echoing the other's words.

John grits his teeth and growls low in his throat, stepping forward to claim the man's lips again. They stumble backwards and sideways through the apartment until they topple into JD's bed. A thought sparks in the back of John's head, and he takes a distracted moment to wonder, yet again, when he last slept in a bed, let alone made love in one.

Doctor Cox breaks their frantic kiss, breathing hard as he asks, "Hey, you okay?"

John does not answer, merely scoots back onto the bed until his head hits the pillows. The older man crawls after him, settling between John's awaiting legs and pressing their cloth-muffled erections together.

Both men hiss, and Doctor Cox reluctantly pulls back, hooking his fingers in the waistband of the younger man's scrub pants. He doesn't tug—as if asking permission and giving the other man one last out—until John eagerly lifts his hips, allowing Doctor Cox to slide his pants and boxers down and off before the older man does the same to his own. The pants, like the shirts, disappear into the darkness.

Perry mashes their sweaty bodies together again, grinding his hips against the younger man's. John's eyelids flutter closed as he gasps and arches his back up off the bed. Doctor Cox nips and licks at John's jawline, his neck, his chest. A familiar, yet strange, tongue circles one nipple, lips brushing against the sensitive bud before teeth clamp down teasingly.

John whimpers and arches against the other man again, his fingers curling into the sheets to resist clutching at his not-husband's biceps. The thought is fleeting, and John pushes it as far from the front of his mind as possible the second it surfaces. But it does not disappear, merely nestles into his subconscious and slowly begins to fester.

_Not-husband_, the thought whispers. _Not your husband._

John hides his choked cries behind moans of pleasure as the whispers continue.

_Guilt. Regret. Cheat. Cheat. Cheater!_

Something drops in his stomach, bubbling warm and coiling tightly. He attempts to breathe through the mounting pleasure, taking large gulps of air that burn his lungs.

"Perry," he pants, his eyebrows drawing together and his head falling back against the pillows that smell like brown sugar shampoo. As Doctor Cox goes lower, his fingers dig into muscled thighs, spreading John's legs apart and biting the sensitive skin between the thigh and the groin.

John hisses, and the sound swells throughout Doctor Cox's body. He watches as the vein along the underside of John's straining cock throbs in time with the pulse point under his tongue. He looks up at the young man, concentrating on his facial features. Pleasure wars with guilt—he can see that plainly. But he can also see the struggle to push that guilt away, to concentrate on what is happening rather than who it is happening with.

For this reason, he is remaining silent, allowing John to forget who he is with.

Fuck, though, the kid's called out his name. But it sounds wrong, his name on the young man's lips. It's as if he's calling someone else's name . . . .

"Perry," John moans, his hips jerking restlessly. "P-Perry!"

Doctor Cox lifts himself to hands and knees, crawling up the length of the younger man's body slowly, calculating every non-verbal response from him. John's eyes remain closed, his muscles trembling and his breathing becoming more erratic. The older man dips his head down, kissing the hollow of John's collarbone at the base of his throat.

John's hands twitch, and he clutches desperately at the sheets beneath him in an attempt to keep himself from reaching up and grabbing the other man. Because if he reaches out, if his fingers feel unfamiliar skin while his body is reacting like _this—_in a way that it should only react to his _husband—_then how . . . _how_ will he be able to live with himself? His not-husband captures his lips, and John tastes salt and sweat and the heady flavor of his own groin.

_Perry, Perry, Perry, _his mind chants, his fingers still desperately clinging to the sheets as if they are a lifeline—his only link to the reality of what is happening. _Don't let go. Don't let go._

His lips part further, allowing the other man more access to his mouth. Doctor Cox's fingers kneed the skin and muscle at his shoulders, beginning a slow rocking motion against the younger man. John's knuckles turn white as the pace quickens, his legs reluctantly spreading wider to allow more contact.

Doctor Cox shifts slightly, disrupting their rhythm, and John hears the opening and closing of the top drawer of the nightstand. Swallowing, his eyes open slowly, finding the older man looking down at him uncertainly, a condom and a bottle of lube clutched awkwardly in one hand.

"John," Doctor Cox says breathlessly, and the young man represses a sigh. He should have known, should have remembered. Part of him had hoped _this_ man would be more experienced then his own Perry during their first time. John feels stupid for thinking he could just close his eyes and let it all happen.

Taking a deep breath, he forces his fingers to uncurl from the sheets and takes the items from a tense hand.

"John . . . ." Doctor Cox says again, but the moment that their fingers touch, that the younger man takes the small bottle and the square packet, his eyes absorb a different look. A _hungry_ look. And before the older man can do or say anything more, John has them flipped over, straddling Doctor Cox's hips.

John flips the cap of the lube open with one thumb, taking Doctor Cox's hand and squirting a generous amount on the man's fingers. His dark eyes flit to his not-husband's uncertain face. "Okay?"

Doctor Cox purses his lips, his eyebrows drawing together. "Sure."

The young man offers a soft smile. "You won't break me," he assures. "Believe me, you've tried."

Frowning, the Irishman takes a breath to speak. He is cut off abruptly as John grabs the elder's hand and brings it around his hips, immediately impaling himself on two slick fingers. They both gasp at the same instant, John wincing uncomfortably.

"You . . . all right?" Doctor Cox pants, swallowing hard against the unfamiliar feeling.

John chuckles. "Cold, that's all." It _isn't _all. _This_ man's fingers are somewhat bigger than Perry's. Strange how you don't think much about weight loss in the hands until another man's fingers are up your ass.

"This is . . ." Doctor Cox hesitates, wiggling his fingers experimentally and scrunching his nose, "disgusting."

John shifts with a breathy chuckle. "Maybe from your end, it is," he says, rocking his hips and hissing at the sensation. "You're going to want to stretch me."

The older man nods once and presses his lips into thin lines before carefully scissoring his fingers. John pulls in a sharp breath and arches his back, pushing down until Doctor Cox's fingers are completely inside him. "Don't be gentle, Perry. I've done this before."

_Makes one of us_, the older doctor thinks bitterly. "Right," he says aloud. "No offense, kid . . . but this part is seriously killing my sex drive."

John looks down at him with a dangerous expression, his eyes completely pupil-encased. "That so?" he asks in a low voice. Shifting back slightly, he is able to nudge the older man's waning member. He grins maliciously as the cock bulges again. "Doesn't feel like it," he says conversationally, ripping the condom wrapper open and reaching behind him.

Doctor Cox watches as John's heated eyes never leave his own, the young man expertly rolling the condom onto his shaft. "Okay," the older man says huskily, "_that's_ pretty hot."

John smirks, repressing the urge to say, _I've had lots of practice_. Instead, he tugs the older doctor's fingers from inside him and says, "That's enough."

Doctor Cox's grin morphs into a frown. "You sure? I thought—"

John cuts him off. "Trying to give me expert advice . . . _Newbie_?"

The Irishman grits his teeth and abruptly rolls them over so that he is, once again, settled between the other's legs. With only a minor hesitation and a brief look at the younger man, Doctor Cox lines himself up with John and presses forward to the hilt.

John arches with a sharp cry, his hips lifting and his legs wrapping firmly around the other's middle. For a long moment, the room is filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then John's muscled legs are tightening, tugging, _encouraging_. The young man swallows when Doctor Cox pulls back an inch and experimentally thrusts forward.

The familiar burn draws him into unwanted thoughts. When is the last time he and Perry made love? Living in a bunker with dozens of other people, curtain-thin walls, and their own children sleeping mere _feet_ from them doesn't exactly allow for the most intimate of moments.

After waking from his three-month coma, there hadn't been time at first to do much more than recover. Of course, after his broadcast to the country, their friends had made arrangements for a short reprieve from their hidden life. It was the best few days of his life; he and Perry had fucked like rabbits for nearly three days straight. He'd had to endure awkward looks and whispered snide remarks for a week when even his natural limp had a careful gait to it. Perry hadn't stopped grinning, not even before his . . . disappearance.

John disappeared. He left Perry alone with a country to fight against, and here he is fucking another man.

_He's at home, worried, _the voice says. _He's not thinking about how to fuck the other you. He's trying to find you a way back. _John can actually hear a sneer in the mental tone. _And what are you doing? Giving up? Accepting this man as a replacement husband?_

Everything goes silent. All sound falls away, and the young man begins to panic before the voice hisses, _You aren't here to stop the war, are you? . . . You're here to start it._

0 o 0 o 0

_March 1st 2016_

"I wouldn't fall asleep, if I were you," Russel cautions, his eyebrows furrowing as he places a hand on the weary man's shoulder. "Aren't people supposed to stay awake if they have a concussion?"

JD concentrates on the teen's words, blinking away the urge to close his eyes and squinting past blurred vision. "Yeah," he says huskily, rubbing at a crick in his neck. "Yeah, usually . . . uh, hours. Lots of hours. Maybe a day. I don't remember."

Russel snorts, his shoulders shrugging with the action as he looks away. "Not many animals get concussions, I guess."

"Animals." JD nods, absently agreeing as if he has understood the conversation thus far. He looks up at the darkening sky, smiling at the multitude of stars twinkling down at them. "Wow . . . there's nothing like this in the city." Looking at Russel, he points upward, and his grin widens goofily. "Check that out!"

The teen raises an eyebrow and glances up indulgently. "Stars," he says, nodding. "Yeah." He looks back at JD, sighing at the child-like wonder he finds there. "There's . . . a lot of them."

"Yeah," JD whispers, laying back and putting his arms up behind his head to cushion it against the hard, packed earth. "Wow."

Russel glances at the last of the people heading into the barracks. "We should go in. They lock up at 9 o'clock."

"You go on," the older man says without a glance in the teen's direction. "I'll stay out here tonight."

"You'll freeze," Russel protests, tugging on JD's sleeve. "Come on, let's just go in."

"I used to live in a tent," JD says casually. "My friends kicked me out of their apartment, so I bought this plot of land for no reason. No house, no foundation, just . . . a porch."

Russel pulls his gaze away from the last of the retreating people. "A porch?" he asks with interest.

"Yeah," JD says longingly. "It was _my_ porch—despite what the local _Dancing Queens_ thought."

The teen smiles. "You had _dancers _on your porch?"

Frowning, JD scrunches his nose. "Not exactly." The young doctor stares for a moment longer at the sky through the silence before speaking again. "Do you remember anything from before the war?"

Russel goes very still, his eyes glazing with distant memories. "I was small," he admits softly. "Too small to remember anything solid. But . . . I can remember little things."

JD's eyes close. "Like what?"

"Like . . . ." The teen trails off, pursing his lips as he wracks his mind for those minute details he's stored away for himself. For _himself_, not anyone else. He looks at the older man lying prone on the cold ground—_really_ looks. What is it about him that makes Russel want to spill his guts? To give him a peek into the life of a teenager who's had no real luck in his life but has never once complained about the way he lives, the way he was raised? What is it about _Jimmy Miller_, who is seeming less and less like a veterinarian the more the two of them talk?

Russel pulls his legs in, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on one boney knee. "Like my mother's perfume. And my dad's laugh." The corners of his mouth lift slightly. "The park across the street from my house, where I played ball with my friends." He turns his head so that his cheek presses against the harsh fabric of his pants. "The smell of healthy, green trees. Watching my brother mow the lawn."

"You have a brother?" JD asks drowsily, as if the words are being spoken in his sleep.

"I had one," Russel says with a sigh. "He was older. Brave and . . . stupid." He shakes his head and closes his eyes as his throat begins to constrict. "He joined the military, was shipped out before the war even started."

The older man nods. "I have an older brother. He's stupid, too. And brave, I guess."

"He's still alive, though," Russel states between clenched teeth, "isn't he?"

JD frowns and opens his eyes. "Sometimes."

The teen raises his head and furrows his eyebrows. "Sometimes? What's that supposed to mean?"

The doctor swallows and turns onto his side, crooking his arm and cradling his head in an upturned palm. "He's married, has kids," he explains. "And he's happy. But sometimes I catch this look in his eyes, like he's not supposed to be . . . _there_." JD looks down into the dirt and begins to trace patterns with his index finger. "It's not regret or anything like that. He really loves being a father. But . . . It's like he's not supposed to be one? Like life chose wrong for him?"

"Sure, I get it," Russel says in a matter-of-fact tone, shrugging absently. "Life sucks sometimes. No one really wants to be who they are. Like that John Dorian guy." JD stiffens at the mention of his counterpart. "You think he chose to be a leader? To be the guy behind the scenes of a major war?"

"John didn't start any of this," JD argues defensively, a strange coherency clearing the fog from his thoughts.

The young man smirks. "Of course he did. He's the one that let the sickness loose."

The doctor sits up, reeling from the abrupt movement but pushing past the dizziness and asking, "Who told you that? Who said that about John?"

Russel's lips press together tightly as his eyebrows furrow. _John_, he thinks. _First-name basis. Does this guy know him? _"The general," he says aloud. "He's told us everything about John Dorian."

"What did he say?"

Shrugging, the teen looks away, his eyebrows furrowing uncertainly. "That he's a traitor. That he's the reason why we have to live like this, live with the sickness."

"But . . . I was told that the sickness is almost completely eradicated," JD argues, breathing through the nausea bubbling up his throat. "How many people are still sick?"

Russel stares at the other man as if he has lost his mind—_maybe that concussion is more serious than I thought_. "Are you serious? Where the hell have you been, man?"

Swallowing hard, JD closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. "Russel," he says, a rasp lacing his words, "how many people are still sick?"

Silence encompasses them both before the teen shakes his head and says, "Everyone . . . _Everyone's _sick."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 28th 2009_

"No!" John shouts, gulping in air as if he's been under water—_drowning_. He has, hasn't he? All of this has been one long nightmare. He's hit his head and relapsed back into a coma. He's about to wake up and find Perry staring at him worriedly, threatening bodily harm if he ever scares him like this again.

"John?" a familiar voice rings dimly. Familiar . . . but not familiar enough. He is still stuck in this nightmare, still breathing clean air that isn't fouled by the stale stench of war and dying. He is still here in this perfect place, and he resents it. He resents this world's JD for taking his life for granted.

"John, hey." Doctor Cox shakes his shoulder, and the young man focuses again. "Can you hear me? What's going on?"

"I'm fine," John states in a tone that contradicts his words. "I'm okay."

The older man frowns, looking down at him as his chest still heaves from exertion. "Did you black out?"

John swallows and closes his eyes, shaking his head. "No, I was just . . . ."

_Just what? Just distracted while your dick was inside of me? Just hoping to feel something other than guilt and pain and this all-consuming anxiety? Just wishing that the man I'm cheating on will forgive me? Because he'll find out. I'll be the one to tell him. John Michael Dorian is a cheater, but he sure as fuck isn't a God-damned liar._

". . . lost," he finishes, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Should we . . . ." Doctor Cox looks distastefully down at John's cum-slick stomach. "I don't know. Clean up, or something?"

The younger man sighs and looks down to where the other's gaze is directed. "Yeah, I think a shower is in order here."

"You wanna go first, or should I?"

John searches Doctor Cox's face. The older man is fishing for something. He wants to get him into a relaxed environment so he can start asking questions, keep an eye on him. Fine, whatever. John will answer any questions that this man has for him—including the big one. What's the point of keeping it to himself any longer?

"Together," the younger doctor states quietly, and he can see the triumph in Doctor Cox's eyes. Funny that it should counteract the defeat in his own. He and Perry are usually on the same page about things.

"Okay," the older man says with a nod and a smile, carefully pulling himself out of John and maneuvering to the edge of the bed to dispose of the condom. When John makes no move to follow, he turns and smiles apprehensively. "Coming?"

The younger man stares at the ceiling, pondering his age compared to this version of Perry. They are considerably closer, and they'd attract less negative attention holding hands in a super market.

John swallows. Jesus, here he is thinking about them holding hands, and the older man just fucked him. Not that Doctor Cox would hold hands anyway. Perry would—if he asked, there would be absolutely no hesitation. But this man is not Perry (as John very well knows). He is not Perry, and he will never be Perry.

So with a resigned, "Sure," John forces himself up off the sticky sheets and follows the man into the bathroom.

0 o 0 o 0

_March 1st 2016_

JD is still for so long that Russel thinks something in the _veterinarian's_ head may have stretched too far and snapped. "Jimmy?"

"Everyone," JD murmurs, his eyes glazed and distant. "Everyone is sick. Everyone . . . is sick?" Blue eyes shiver into focus, and he looks around with a perplexed expression until his gaze finds the teen again. "Where did you hear that? How do you know?"

Russel's eyebrows draw together. _You'd think that someone with a medical degree—even one for animals—would know all this stuff. _"The cure, the one that's being passed around? It doesn't _cure_, exactly. It just . . ." He bites his bottom lip as he attempts to recall the exact words that people have been saying. "Internalizes it? Gets rid of the symptoms without getting rid of the sickness."

"Who _said _that?" JD demands, his fingers clenching at the dirt as he resists the urge to clutch at the young man's weathered clothing. Russel really isn't wearing much more than a faded sweatshirt, a pair of grungy jeans, and oversized workman boots. "Who's _saying_ that?"

Russel shrugs and scoffs with a teen-like attitude.

_Fitting_, JD thinks—or would have thought if his mind were in the right place . . . .

"Dorian," the teenager spits angrily. "John Michael Dorian."

0 o 0 o 0

_February 28th 2009_

John shivers as the warm water flattens his hair, dribbles down his face and chest in rivulets, washes away the stickiness on his abdomen. He can almost relax, almost pretend that he is back home half asleep and waiting for the shower to wake him fully before another hellish day.

The arms that wrap around his middle, however, bring him crashing back to reality, and his fingers slide uselessly against the tile as a well-toned chest presses up against his back.

"John," Doctor Cox whispers in his ear. The young man turns away from that voice, shaking his head. "John, you can't ignore this."

"I can," John argues, turning in the man's arms and scowling at him. "I _will_. And so will you."

Doctor Cox narrows his eyes. "John—"

"Stop," the younger man hisses, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Anger is a hard emotion to emulate when one is stark naked and staring into the eyes of another naked man, but John has forgotten about petty things like dignity and shame. War takes many things, and feelings—_emotions—_are no exception. If only guilt were a part of that petty group . . . . "Stop saying my name like you know who I am."

"I _don't _know who you are?" the other asks indignantly, scoffing and taking a careful step backward in the small shower. "After—"

"After _what_?" John doesn't mean to shout the words, but they echo even more loudly in the bathroom than they would normally. "After that _fuck fest_? You think that meant anything?" John can see the effect of his words in Doctor Cox's eyes, the hurt swimming in anger and embarrassment, and the feeling swells in his stomach."I'm not . . ." _Not your husband._ He stops, swallowing hard and blinking past the water dripping into his eyes. "I'm not a good person."

Doctor Cox frowns. "No, Billie Jean, _I_ am not a good person. You . . . You're a hero."

John squirms at the word. "I'm a hero for cheating on my husband?"

The older man doesn't flinch. He has known that John is married. And he's even suspected that it's to a man. But . . . the way the young man had said his name, like he was saying someone else's name at the same time. His strange comment earlier . . . .

It clicks. Percival Cox is an ignorant man, an oblivious man, and—at times—a very, very stupid man. But he gets this. It rushes to meet him like liquid concrete, filling his mind and setting so quickly that his head feels heavy with the knowledge he has just acquired by his own means.

"We're married," he states absently, and John sucks in a shallow breath. "You and me . . . the other me . . . the future, alternate, whatever me . . . I'm your husband."

The young man swallows hard, unable to do more than nod his head when his voice fails him.

"And . . . And you let me . . ." Doctor Cox begins to shake his head incredulously. "You let me do that? You let me fuck you so you could . . . feel like you were with him?"

John shakes his head and looks down at the water swirling around their feet. "No. Well . . . Maybe at first. But—"

"I'm not him," the older man says angrily. "I'm not him. I can't compare to someone you've been fucking for however long."

"You can't compare," John says in a low, dangerous voice, "because what Perry and I do isn't _fucking_." He shifts his gaze so that he is glaring at Perry through his water-laced eyelashes.

Doctor Cox snorts and takes another step back. "Right," he says softly. "You _make love_, huh? Is that what you do?" He glances down to John's left hand. "Do you wear a ring? Or is that too much of a commitment for him?"

John absently rubs the spot where his ring usually rests. "We . . . don't wear them often. It's dangerous."

"Because the enemy doesn't like faggots?" Doctor Cox blurts before he can stop himself.

A silent moment passes between the two, and the younger doctor stares hard into the other man's eyes, resisting the urge to hit him.

"My name," he says softly, rage causing a tremor in his tone, "is John Michael Dorian-Cox." His chin trembles. "I have never been ashamed of that . . . but if protecting my husband—" He takes a shuddering breath. "—and our children means that I have to deny our marriage, deny the only thing that I believe in anymore, and do the unthinkable, the unimagineable . . . then I sure as hell will."

Doctor Cox is quiet before saying, "So . . . I'm the enemy?" John can only stare back. "Right."

Shoving the curtain aside, the older man steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and slamming the bathroom door open before leaving an unresponsive John behind. Water slides effortlessly down his face, and the heat from the water causes a hazy mist to surround him.

_What am I doing? _he thinks desperately. _What have I done?_

AN: Well, there are a few things that I, myself, don't like about this chapter. I won't say them, I'll leave that to your reviews. I'm sure you have questions and/or concerns. And if you don't, that's wonderful! Next chapter up . . . uh, soon? Hopefully. Sorry this is such slow-going. The job-hunting is not as successful as I'd like it to be. And I really need a car. Really, really!

Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :)


	9. Chapter Eight

AN: So...How long has it been? ... That long, huh? Dang, I am the fail queen, aren't I? I apologize profusely, my friends. I haven't been up to par on my writing lately. I actually had this all written out on a piece of paper, a very _important_ piece of paper, which I _lost_. Again, fail queen. I couldn't find it for _months_, so I finally had to convince myself to just re-write the darn chapter. But it wasn't the same. Then, I delved into some _Supernatural_ for a while. Sniffed around _Psych _and _White Collar _for a bit. THEN, I found the stupid piece of paper in an old notebook. *sigh* Oh, what would I do _without _my brain, that's what I want to know. Anyway, enough of the chatter and the excuses. I do hope you enjoy this second-to-last chapter. It's bound to get interesting after this particular installment. The third is in the works! Let me know how you think things are going! Or, you know, just read and enjoy!

Chapter Eight:

_March 5, 2009_

John stares absently at the chart lying on the nurses station, leaning against the counter and tapping out an erratic beat with fingernails that have been bitten down over the past few days. He's been distracted. He knows why, and he knows how to fix it—but it's the actual _act_ of fixing it that is giving him trouble.

Doctor Cox has made a largely successful effort to avoid him unless a patient's life depends on it. Not that John doesn't wholly deserve it. He's said awful things, _done_ awful things. And, truly, he feels guilty—one emotion that, unfortunately, has _not_ gone away despite the war. If anything, it has intensified.

But it doesn't matter. Doctor Cox will never forgive him, and that's fine. He doesn't need forgiveness.

What John needs . . . is _understanding_.

The older man needs to realize that John isn't a _bad_ person. But war changes people. It morphs them until everything about them that was once bright and shiny-new is rusted and clogged and ugly.

John's eyebrows furrow, and he sighs as he decides that Doctor Cox's realization will not occur until he has experienced the war himself. _Which is looking more likely as things continue_, he thinks solemnly.

"Everything all right, Bambi?"

John's gaze snaps up from the chart to find Carla watching him expectantly from the opposite side of the station.

"Fine," the young man states quietly. "Just . . . thinking about a patient."

The nurse smiles sympathetically. "Turk told me about that boy. The one in San Francisco?" John's lips tighten, and he nods. "I'm sorry it didn't work out for you."

_It's not _me_ it didn't work out for_, John thinks with regret. "Thank you, Carla."

"Is there anything I can do?" As the words leave her mouth, someone else approaches the nurses station and hands Carla two charts.

John stiffens as a gruff voice says, "I need a surgical consult in room 230, and some patient's kid threw up in 127."

The nurse takes the charts and nods. "Sure thing, Perry."

Silence takes hold of the small expanse, a desertedness scouring the surrounding corridors.

"Thank you, Carla," John says softly, gathering his chart and a few others. "But I think I'll be just fine."

The nurse gives him a tight smile—one that says _I-don't-believe-a-word-you-just-said—_and John turns to leave.

He barely makes it three steps before an anxious voice calls out, "Doctor Dorian!" Stopping short, he turns to his right, nearly dropping the charts in his hands at the sight that greets him.

"Mrs. Hollock?" he asks, not quite believing that she is there until Doctor Cox turns to her as well. "What—" And then he sees the boy at her side—the boy pressing a bloodied cloth beneath his nose and wavering on his feet.

The charts in John's hand then _do_ clatter to the ground, and he rushes forward just as the boy collapses. Cradling Jeremy to his chest, the young doctor stares at him for a moment in wonder.

Here he is again, the boy who started it all. Patient Zero. John is surprised to find himself in this position once more. Like the age-old question goes—if you were able to travel back in time and meet Hitler before he'd started the Holocaust, would you have the courage to kill him? John hates making the comparison between a child who has absolutely no power over what is happening to him and a power-hungry dictator who had every chance to stop what he was doing—but didn't.

But the question is still the same. If saving this universe from hell-on-earth means ending one boy's life, can John take that responsibility? _Should _he take that responsibility?

"Perry." He breathes the name that has left his lips every time he has found himself in a desperate situation. And his husband has never failed him. Perry has always been there, always found him in the nick of time.

"Need a gurney down here!" Doctor Cox yells from above him, stooping down beside him and beginning to check the boy's vitals. "When did this start, Mrs. Hollock?"

John realizes that it should be _him_ asking the questions, _him _calling for a gurney. Instead, he's contemplating the murder of a child.

"Two days ago," the woman answers hysterically. "They were just nosebleeds. He plays soccer! I thought—"

"Has he been complaining of pain anywhere else?" the older man interrupts her, his fingers moving deftly up and down the boy's throat, behind his jaw.

"Abdominal spasms," John recites breathlessly before Mrs. Hollock can say anything. "Muscle weakness in the arms and legs. Respiratory distress." He gasps when the woman leans down and places a hand on his shoulder, staring at him with a bewildered look.

"How?" she whispers, shaking her head. "How do you know? Are there others?" She looks to Doctor Cox desperately. "Are there more like him?"

The gurney arrives, and John stands, the older doctor holding tightly to both of them. "Get him upstairs for a CT. Then have him admitted to pediatrics. I want bloodwork _asap_."

John stays silent until the gurney is out of sight, Doctor Cox and Mrs. Hollock trailing after it hurriedly.

"He won't make it."

Carla makes her way around the nurses station, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. "Bambi? Are you all right?"

"He's brain dead," the doctor states matter-of-factly, shrugging from Carla's touch and snatching up the charts he'd dropped. "There's nothing more to do."

0 o 0 o 0

Doctor Cox slams the door to the on-call room closed, leaning back against it exhaustedly. "I've been looking for you," he states to the occupied bed. John shifts and sits up, staring at him through the dimness. "The kid's unresponsive."

"I know," the younger man says quietly.

Doctor Cox swallows hard before asking, "How long does he have?"

With a shrug, John looks down at his sneakers. The gesture is undeniably Newbie-esqe, and the older man is, suddenly, taken by the thought that _his_ JD . . . _their_ JD is just as trapped as this one is. "A few hours, maybe. Brain death is the final stage. It doesn't take long after that."

The older man closes his eyes and nods. "Is there . . . _anything_ we can do?"

John takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before releasing it with a shudder. "No. It's already here. And probably anywhere from here to San Francisco." He looks up. "We're done."

"Done," Doctor Cox repeats quietly. "A war is coming. _Millions_ are going to die. And we're _done_."

The younger doctor sighs, opening and closing his mouth several times as he attempts to find the right words. What exactly is he supposed to say?

_Sorry_.

_Maybe if we had acted faster . . . ._

_Here's a list of people at the hospital who will be dead within a month. Better say your goodbyes while you can._

"Todd," John says softly, and Doctor Cox watches him carefully. "It will hit the hospital hard. And it will start with him."

"Who else?" the older man asks.

John shakes his head, standing and walking towards the door. "It doesn't matter. They'll be gone . . . and you'll have to move on."

"How?" Doctor Cox's voice is husky. "How do you move on from that? How do you just . . . leave that behind? Leave _them_ behind?"

John takes a deep breath and steps up to the older man—the tips of their sneakers almost touching—taking his face in both hands. Doctor Cox's eyes are swimming with stubborn tears. The young man wishes they would fall, wishes that this man would just _own up_ and accept who he's supposed to be.

"You look forward," John replies, his voice sturdy and calm. "You forget the past and you leap into the unknown. You don't look back."

Doctor Cox forces himself to breathe slowly. After everything this imposter has put him through—this _not_-JD—_how_ can the older doctor still be affected by him? Still have these feelings rolling in his stomach and chest?

All that John has done since his arrival is ruin their happy, oblivious lives. Who told him to spoil the surprise? Who says he was even sent here to tell them? He could have kept his mouth shut, let people believe he was going through puberty. Instead, he has them running around last minute and missing their chances anyway. So what's the point? Why is he here?

"What if I can't?" he whispers, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Reaching up, his trembling fingers wrap around the young man's wrists and tug warm hands away from his face. "What if it's too much?"

John smiles. "You're not alone, Perry." He swallows, his eyes flickering to the older doctor's lips. "You'll never be alone."

Doctor Cox sees the look in John's eyes, sees the hesitancy, and surges forward before either of them can change their minds.

The kiss isn't hungry like its predecessors. It starts desperate, fast, then it morphs. John places his hands on the older man's chest, pulling back just slightly but not breaking the contact between them. It is a minute gesture, barely noticeable, but it softens the intimate moment, allows them to _breathe _rather than _gasp_.

The older doctor thinks that if _this_ had been their first kiss, if their first moment together had been about getting to know one another, _exploring_ the possibilities rather than quick, unthinking, and admittedly awkward lust, then things might have turned out differently between them . . . And there might be no chance for him and the JD of _this_ time.

Is that why . . . .

John breaks the kiss abruptly, resting their foreheads together and breathing in the almost familiar aroma. "You won't be alone, Perry," he says huskily. "I'll make sure of that."

0 o 0 o 0

_March 5, 2016_

JD frowns at the playing cards that Russel takes out of his pocket and doles out to the small group of people sitting around them. As the teen tosses him one, he turns it over, examining it more thoroughly. They're homemade, no more than faded ink on laminated pieces of paper. Even a simple thing like playing cards are hard to come by.

"Aw, Jimmy!" Russel complains, snatching the card away from him and inserting it into the middle of the deck. "The point of the game is to keep your cards to _yourself_, not flash them at everyone else."

JD smirks and accepts the new card sheepishly. "Sorry, kid. I'll try to remember that."

Russel laughs and hands out the rest of the cards, a funny smile on his face as they begin the game. Four days doesn't seem like a large amount of time, but when all you have going for you is the guy sitting beside you and the next meal, four days is enough to learn a lifetime of information.

Russel is the only teen his age in the camp. All the others are either older than eighteen or younger than ten. But the kid fits in just fine with every age group. He also used to go to a private school, had skipped ahead a couple grades and had earned several scholarships to attend Princeton in a year or so.

That was before his parents were found to be slipping large amounts of money to the rebel cause. His father was killed in their home while Russel and his mother were dragged away and separated. The teen doesn't know where she is or if she's even alive. But not a day goes by that he doesn't wake cursing the name of John Michael Dorian.

JD sighs and frowns as the conversation from a few nights before sifts through his head. He's slowly been pulling it piece by piece to consciousness. The blow to the head had knocked a few marbles loose, but, thankfully, not permanently.

The young doctor has determined that Russel's account of the sickness is no more than speculation and rumor. _Of course_ the government would come up with something like that—to keep people on their side and afraid of the resistance.

JD has done his best to keep his head low, avoid all talk of the resistance, but it's hard. One question constantly plagues his aching mind.

_What would John do in this situation?_

He'd be brave, unafraid to state what he believes. Unafraid of what they would do to him if they ever found out.

He swallows as the thought hits him hard. What _will _they do to him if they find out? If they discover that not only is he John Michael Dorian, but he's a _past_ John Michael Dorian? And that his death will lead to the destruction of the resistance in his time?

JD doesn't really want to figure that particular detail out, so he stays quiet, keeps his head, and _survives_.

That is . . . until today.

The moment that everyone in the small group—except for Russel—scatters, the young doctor knows that something is wrong. And when two pairs of hands clench his upper arms painfully and force him to his feet, he finds out _exactly_ what that something is.

"Jimmy Miller?" a stoic soldier demands gruffly. JD can do no more than swallow hard and nod his head once, wishing that his thoughts would clear long enough for him to realize what the hell is going on. "Come with us. The general wants a word."

He isn't offered the option of following; three soldiers roughly grab him and start toward the building ahead. The surrounding soldiers outside the fence tense and shift uncomfortably, whispering amongst each other and tightening their grips on their guns.

Funny how a single name can strike fear into the enemy, can carry with it so much power and doubt that grown men feel helpless and out-numbered in its presence. Like _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_. John Michael Dorian, even absent from this place and time, is frighteningly intimidating.

JD can't help but respect that aspect of his counterpart's life. And if he takes _anything_ back to his time, back _home_, then it will be this moment right here and now.

The young doctor twists in the soldiers' holds until he is facing the way he came, stumbling backwards when the pace does not slow down.

"Russel!" he shouts, searching the spot where their card game was just shy of taking place. The teen stands apprehensively, watching the young man with a frightened look. JD smiles reassuringly, holding up his playing cards. "Gin!"

He is barely able to catch the hesitant quirk of Russel's lips before he is dragged into the dark and a metal door clanks closed.

0 o 0 o 0

_March 5, 2009_

Five hours and thirty-seven minutes after being admitted to Sacred Heart, Jeremy Hollock dies. His mother is in the cafeteria attempting to calm her nerves with a cup of watered-down coffee. Doctor Cox is halfway across the hospital pretending to be interested in his favorite soap opera. And John . . . is nowhere to be found.

Not that the older man has been looking. Or cares. But the young man is hard to push from his thoughts—how John handles situations and speaks his mind and pushes back when pushed. He is hard to forget, and the older man hopes that in time John Dorian will be difficult to remember.

Just as Doctor Cox allows his mind to wander to something _other_ than John, a crazed intern bursts into the room, his chest heaving and his wide eyes searching.

"D-Doctor Cox!" he wheezes, and the older man holds up a hand.

"If _this_," he says, gesturing to the scruffy intern without taking his eyes off of the television screen from his spot on the couch, "is not a life or death situation, then you'd better turn that tight little kiester around and march right back the way you came."

"But—"

"It _must_ not be life or death, because _no one_ has bothered to page me," Doctor Cox reasons.

"We _have_ been paging you," the intern huffs indignantly, and the older man has to give him credit for strapping on a pair.

He looks down at his pager, and growls with frustration when he finds it off. "I charged this damn thing last night," he mutters, leaning forward and shaking the object. "So, what is it? A code? Someone forget how to clean bed pans? 'Cause I'll be happy to show them—"

"It's Doctor Dorian."

The older man's stomach drops.

0 o 0 o 0

_March 5, 2016_

It's been hours. Maybe. Or has it been minutes? Days, perhaps?

When JD is dragged out of the building, his one good eye can see dark clouds overhead. Rain pelts his bruised and bleeding face, his broken collarbone, his dislocated shoulder. Everything burns, and the rain feels so good, so cold. He shivers, groaning when it jostles his injuries.

He's outside. The man who did this to him, the general, he's shouting angrily. From below them, there are more shouts, masses of blurred faces, gnashing mouths, eyes—hollow and angry and alone. Everything is so high up here. Are they in heaven staring down at the unfortunates? Or has hell switched places with them? It's not so bad here, really. A little chilly, but not unsatisfactory.

JD made friends at Sacred Heart—why shouldn't he be able to make them here in hell?

It's too bad that his friends can't see him one last time. Too bad that he has to die here in _this_ hell, rather than his own—or is hell linked for all universes? Maybe he'll meet other versions of himself . . . .

The blurred faces move together as one enormous blob, their angry eyes focused on him.

One name.

That's all it takes to create so much hope and fear and _hatred_. Who can say if John Michael Dorian is more loved than hated? JD doubts that the _real_ man truly cares. But he's seen enough love and faith to know that something has to be done to put him in his rightful place, to return him to the people who need him most.

Suddenly, words are bubbling past his lips, filling the anger and making those eyes—_all_ of them—falter. Hesitance is all it takes, huh? Plant a seed of doubt and watch it grow until those eyes, this massive _thing_, a collection of consciences, begins to think for itself—for _them_selves. And then this thing is no longer singular. It's _many_. It's not a blob.

It's _people—_something that maybe the general has forgotten.

Is this how John feels? Affecting lives the way he does? No wonder . . . .

Several faces look up at him, but only one sticks out.

"Riley," he says, and his tongue is thick in his mouth. He can't tell if he's whispering or shouting, but he continues anyway, "I'll find you."

0 o 0 o 0

_March 5, 2016_

Doctor Cox bursts onto the roof, his chest burning and his legs trembling from running up several flights of stairs. His hair is damp within moments, a torrent of rain forcing him to squint as he skids. He bumps someone but ignores their initial, "Hey! Watch where you're—" and their eventual realization and blubbering apology.

He ignores this because John is standing on the roof's ledge, oblivious to the surrounding people and their gentle coaxing. At the head of the crowd is Dan, louder and more insistent than the rest. John turns, looking past his brother and straight to Doctor Cox with surprisingly bright and coherent eyes.

"Perry," he says, loud enough to be heard over the rain, and the small crowd turns to the older man expectantly.

He doesn't think. "Leave." The word escapes his mouth out of habit, and no one questions him. The roof is empty in less than a minute—empty except for John, Dan, and himself. "Dan—"

"No." Dan shakes his head and stomps towards him, his shoes propelling water droplets everywhere. "What the hell? What the hell have you done to him?"

"_Me_? I've been _ignoring _the little bastard. I haven't done a God-damn _thing_. Where the hell have _you_ been?"

"With my _family_."

"Then maybe that's where you should be, huh?"

"I'm not _leaving_ my—"

"Your _what_?" Doctor Cox gestures to the young man still staring at them from his perch on the ledge. "He's not your brother, Dan. He doesn't even _belong_ in this universe."

"So that gives him the right to jump off of buildings? For _you_ to stand by and let him commit _suicide_?"

"I didn't tell him to get up there and be an idiot!"

John chooses this moment to intervene. "You finished, gentlemen?" he calls, smiling genuinely when they both turn to him. "Or would you like to make out? I can leave, if you want some alone time." He inches one foot towards the edge until his toes are no longer touching concrete. Water bounces off of his sneaker and plummets to the parking lot far below, where several spectators have appeared, their faces turned upwards into the rain.

"John!"

"Newbie, cut it out!"

John brings his foot back, the soles of his shoes scraping wetly across the ledge as he turns to face them. "I'm trying to fix this."

"Fix _what_?" Doctor Cox demands. "What could you _possibly _fix by jumping off this building?"

"It could bring JD back."

"_Could_?" Dan asks incredulously. "What if it doesn't work? What if you're being a _moron_ and you _kill_ yourself?"

"Only one way to find out." Spreading his arms wide, John watches the other two men leap forward. They halt abruptly when he raises his palms towards them.

Doctor Cox takes another step forward, shaking the water from his face and spitting into the rain. "John, you can't just . . . This is _crazy_!"

"I can live with that," the younger man states with a smirk.

"People _need_ you," Doctor Cox argues, licking his lips and taking yet another step forward. "This universe or yours—_we _need you."

"No," John denies with a shake of his head. "People are strong, Per. They know how to take care of themselves, with or without someone like me."

"You don't get it," the older doctor grinds out. "You have no idea who you are to these people."

"Of course I do. I'm John Michael Dorian. I've heard my name shouted in the heat of battle, whispered just before death. I've seen the influence of a mere name—_my _name."

"Then how can you say we'll be all right? Without you, we're—"

"Together. Without me . . ." He looks between the two of them. ". . . you're still together. And without me, you'll be all right."

Doctor Cox stares at him for a long moment, rain dripping down his face and disappearing into his soaked clothing. "Promise?" he asks, and Dan turns away, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging on the wet locks harshly as he starts towards the rooftop exit.

"Yes. Always."

"Johnny!" Dan calls, spinning around and taking determined strides until he is right in front of the young man. He bounces on the balls of his feet a couple of times, biting the inside of his cheek before inhaling a large amount of air and rain water. "I don't care _where _you're from or what the hell you do. You're still my little brother." John exhales, his shoulders slumping and his mouth quirking into a relieved smile as if a weight has been lifted from him. Having found a way in past the young man's defenses, Dan continues desperately."How am I supposed to . . . What's going to happen if you die here? If _he_ doesn't come back?"

John frowns and looks away from his brother-from-another-universe, glancing over the roof's edge for a long moment before shrugging. "We'll see," he says.

Lightening illuminates the sky.

And then he's gone.

0 o 0 o 0

The man known as Jimmy Miller is dragged onto the roof overlooking the compound. He looks beaten and drugged, and he has to be held upright by the soldiers gingerly flanking him. What is it about this man—this silly, and somewhat stupid, veterinarian—that has these people spooked?

The general stands tall beside Jimmy, hands clasped tightly behind his back and a smug look smeared across his sweaty, wrinkled face. He shouts about the traitor John Michael Dorian, and then he points to Jimmy, saying they are the same man—saying that _Jimmy _is the traitor.

"Liar!" Russel shouts angrily from the crowd, faces turning to him in astonishment. "Jimmy! Tell them who you are! Tell them!"

But Jimmy doesn't speak. He stands and he wavers and he looks around at the crowd as if he hasn't heard anything. And the look on his face—Russel has seen that look before.

Hopelessness.

It plagues the eyes of so many during these times. He can't believe he is seeing it on the face of one of the only friends he has found in this ridiculous muck-hole of a world, the only person able to get close enough, make him drop his guard.

And now he is about to lose him, just like he lost his parents.

"Jimmy! Don't—"

"I am not . . . ." Jimmy starts, his voice quiet and quavering. He takes a deep breath, straightening despite the pain it must be calling him. "I am not John Michael Dorian." He shakes his head along with the words as if to confirm them. "But I am not Jimmy Miller, either."

Russel's stomach twists as he soaks the words in. _Not Jimmy? But not Dorian?_

"John Michael Dorian is not responsible for this," the not-Jimmy continues. "He's a doctor and a fighter, and he hasn't lost hope that people still believe in a world without all of _this_." His eyes scan the crowd, his tone pleading. "Who has you here? In this place?" Murmurs break out. "It's not John Dorian."

The general looks furious. He's stomping towards not-Jimmy, gun in hand.

_He's gonna kill 'im! _Russel thinks in horror, his voice joining the crowd's as their murmurs become protests. "He's gonna kill 'im! Someone stop 'im!"

Russel looks around, watches several people begin to surge forward, overtaking startled guards. They begin to climb the building, standing on one another's shoulders to reach. They're doing it! They're fighting back! And they're winning! . . . . But it might be too late. He looks up, and not-Jimmy's lips are moving—he says something that Russel can't hear.

Lightening crackles, brightening the sky and casting eerie shadows across the compound. The general and his men on the roof are nothing but silhouettes for an agonizing moment, spots dancing in front of the teen's eyes as he blinks furiously, tears loosing down his face.

Then the man known as Jimmy Miller leaps from the side of the building.

AN: I kept wanting to write "Russel" as "Riley." So if I didn't change any "Riley"s back to "Russel," let me know! Fo sho. :P

Later, Gators! Catch you all in the next chapter!


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